


Who's Afraid of the Big Green Thing?

by AlexKingOfTheDamned, swimsalot



Series: History Repeating [1]
Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Angst, Bruce being a doctor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Origin Story, Reluctant friends, Sort of an AU, sometimes smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:06:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 66,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/AlexKingOfTheDamned, https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimsalot/pseuds/swimsalot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate origin story that takes place before the Avengers movie-verse. </p><p>Clint finds Bruce in a circus as the main freak show side attraction, and he's determined to befriend him and set him free.<br/>And before they know what's happened, they're fleeing the country together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally meant to be short. 
> 
> Oops.

Life on the run was _hard_ work. Disguises and tricks, watching your steps, never a casual moment, always on your guard. Anyone could be a spy, anyone could be looking for you. It was grueling. Clint never particularly enjoyed himself when he was on the run.

 

Currently in between jobs and just a day under nineteen years old, Clint pissed off the wrong people on his last freelance job and he had to lay low for a while. A circus just happened to blow its way into town, and while he might have been a little bit bitter considering he just _left_ a circus, he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was hired almost immediately because of his agility and previous experience.

 

He only meant to stay for a short while. A few weeks, tops. That was until he saw the man in the cage. It was old fashioned and ornate, wooden and painted orange and red and blue, with a big sign on the front hanging over massive bars that read only “THE MONSTER.” The man inside looked so harmless and slight, he couldn’t imagine how something so gentle could be called a monster.

 

Whenever he asked any of the other circus workers about it, no matter how casually, they would always stare at him with hard eyes, accusing, and walk away. He gave up after the first half-try with the ringmaster. One glare and he knew that this guy definitely wasn't a subject people were willing to talk about. And yet, he was always surrounded. Two or three workers around his wooden and barred cage at any given moment, staring at him, glaring at him, but never actually talking to him. And he never once looked up.

 

Dirty graying hair grew in wavy strands that always obscured his face, his head bowed. His legs crossed, wearing - oddly enough - purple sweatpants that had definitely seen better days, and nothing to adorn his torso. Even the modest amount of body hair didn't hide the fact that his ribs were visible enough to be counted. In fact, Clint couldn't remember a time he'd ever seen the man be fed. But still he didn't look up, and certainly he didn't complain.

 

And honestly, it seemed as though he wasn't there for anything. Nobody talked about him, nobody talked _to_ him, and he did nothing but sit in a cage with chains around his neck, his wrists, and his ankles. All of which connected to shackles that were far too big to restrain a man his size, they were practically hula hoops.

 

It wasn't until almost a month in that Clint glimpsed his true purpose.

It was prestigious. The audience was filthy rich, fat men with beautiful girls they paid into their laps. Old women with far too much money for their own good. The sort of crowd that Clint wanted to punch on principle.

 

The man in the cage, “The Monster” - Clint didn't know his real name - was looking up. Eyes sunken in, face gaunt and stubbled and frightened. Circus workers approached him with long, sharp metal sticks and began to probe him through the bars.

Flesh tore, blood spilled, panic heightened, and suddenly those massive gauntlets and shackles were the perfect size for an enraged, terrified man the size of a bear - probably bigger.

 

And the audience was just laughing. Fat rolls bouncing in their glee and the cage was shaking with the creature’s rage as they threw things at him. It was the most horrible thing Clint ever witnessed.

And then it was over just like it began, and the creature shrunk back down to the grey sort of man. He was shaking, maybe fear, maybe exertion, he was panting and he was sweating and – yes – he was crying. But even that was over within five minutes, and he was back in his meditative stance, legs folded, head bowed, and his ornate cage was wheeled away.

 

Clint's act followed shortly after. His usual acrobatic archery, filled with impossible feats and unwaveringly perfect aim never failed to inspire the audience. No one laughed at him. They gasped and jumped and applauded and while it wasn't as satisfying as it had been as a kid Clint always walked away feeling a little smug.  
  
Not that night though. That night he walked away hating himself a little for bringing those people any kind of joy. They were sick and twisted and laughed at someone who was obviously in pain. It was wrong and he wanted no part of it.  
  
He was thinking about all the things he could have done to shut them up when he came across "The Monster’s” cage. For once it was left alone, his usual guards having gone to perform in the show. He approached carefully, his bow held tightly in his hand and his eyes wary. He didn't think the man would attack him but he couldn't be sure.  
  
"Um...hi." he said when he was close enough for the man to hear him.

 

Eyes snapped open, followed by a head flying up, and he looked directly at Clint with an expression of complete alarm.

 

Emotions rippled through him and he took a breath in through his nose as he blinked at the cautious man approaching him. Short and sturdy, stocky muscle and thick limbs, he resembled a tree somewhat. Dirty blonde hair short and cropped, wearing an all-purple spandex costume, and he was holding an archer’s bow.

 

And he was approaching the Monster. Obviously this kid was new.

 

“Hello,” he said, not wanting to be rude. He was a little bit dizzy and a lot bit cranky, and he was still bleeding from several lacerations and would continue to do so for probably another hour until someone came to tend to him with a washcloth on a stick, but he didn’t want to be rude. This was the first conversation he’d had in months.

 

"I'm Clint." The archer said. He didn't bother with a last name. They didn't mean anything here anyway. Even first names were a unusual. Most people referred to each other by their stage names, it kept things impersonal.

 

But this guy was different. Being locked in a cage made everything impersonal and he might appreciate the familiarity.

 

“Bruce,” the man responded, and he seemed a little more relaxed. Nobody had asked him his name in a very long time. This boy was something stupid, but probably special.

 

His hands resting on his knees started to fidget, touching his thumb to each of his fingertips.

 

"That was quite a performance." Clint said, taking a step closer. He wanted to ask how he had done it or what had made him like this but he knew better. Asking questions only led to trouble. His father had taught him that and he didn't even want to think about how hard this guy could hit him if he wanted.

 

Bruce blinked at Clint for a moment. But no, he wasn’t being insulting.

 

“I do try,” he said, sounding entirely unamused. After another moment of total silence, Bruce raked his eyes over the archer’s taut form. “I’m not about to turn green and try to flip the cage over on you. You can stop approaching me like I’m a wild animal.”

 

"Force of habit." Clint replied and he took a few steps closer and leaned against the bars of the cage. "Can never be too careful. But I'm sure you know that."  
  
Up close he could see that the man was younger than he had originally thought. He had guessed he was around forty, possibly older but he could see now he was wrong. Despite his greying hair and the stress lines on his face his eyes were bright and still had some youth to them. He was probably in his early thirties.  
  
"You hungry man?" Clint asked, fishing in his quiver for a granola bar. He always tucked a few in there in case he got hungry right before his act. He focused better when he had a full stomach though he could do just fine half starved.

 

Bruce didn’t argue when Clint slid the morsel between the bars of his cage, but he didn’t make a move towards it. Despite the fact that he could slip his hands out of the massive shackles, seeing as a cantaloupe could have fit comfortably in one, he remained perfectly still. He watched Clint with careful eyes the whole time, but didn’t so much as breathe harder.

 

“I’m on a specific diet,” he said.

 

Clint lifted an eyebrow at the other man. Bruce was so thin he should be jumping at any food he could get. The guy was half starved. And he was turning down a granola bar?  
  
"What for? Trying to lose weight?"

 

Bruce thought he felt like he was going to smile for a moment, but he didn’t quite manage.

 

“Specific nutrients. Don’t want to throw myself off my routine.” He looked down at the wrapper more closely. “And I don’t like peanuts.”

 

"Your loss." Clint said, taking the bar back. he quickly opened it and took a bite. It was bland with only the peanuts and a few pieces of chocolate giving it any hint of flavor but it was better than going hungry. "So what do you eat then? Lots of veggies so you'll grow up big and strong?"

 

Bruce was silent for a moment.

 

“You’re going to get in trouble if anyone sees you talking to me. The staff doesn’t like to acknowledge I’m human. It helps them sleep a night. You’re not nearly important enough to keep around if you’re found breaking their biggest unspoken rule. I don’t want you to get fired because your humanity had you itching to talk to me.”

 

Clint laughed. Humanity wasn't the first thing people usually thought of when they thought of him. After the life he'd led he doubted there was any real humanity left in him. That would mean giving a damn about other people and he didn't. At least, he could ignore it long enough to put an arrow through their skulls if he needed to and that was all that mattered.  
  
"I don't care if they fire me. I came here because I was bored. And I'm talking to you because I'm curious." he said. "Don't think it means anything."

 

“If it doesn’t mean anything then you can turn around and walk away right now.” Bruce said evenly. His eyes were trained unwaveringly on Clint, but what was especially unnerving was the fact that his eyes moved rather than his head, tracking every one of Clint’s movements.

 

"Maybe I will." Clint said, but he made no move to leave. He took another bite of his granola bar and watched Bruce, trying to figure him out. He was good at reading people, another necessity he had developed over the years, but he wasn't getting anything from Bruce. The man seemed like a blank slate. At least on the surface. Clint had a feeling there might be more beneath that calm facade.

 

Bruce blinked a few more times, but when Clint said nothing, he simply lowered his head again and closed his eyes. His fingers stopped moving and he began to breathe deeply and evenly.

 

“If you’re not going to say anything, you’re not going to throw anything at me, and you’re not here to laugh at my scars, then you should just go.” He said after a long moment without lifting his head.

 

"Where you from?" Clint asked because it was the first thing that popped into his head. He didn't really care but it had sounded like Bruce was challenging him. And Clint Barton never backed down from a challenge.

 

“I’d rather not talk about my previous life.” Bruce said evenly, and his fingers started to tap together again.

 

Clint shrugged and kept talking. "I'm from Iowa. Tiny town. Haven't been there since I was a little kid but that doesn't change anything. Still from there, no matter what happens."

 

“I didn’t ask.” Bruce almost smiles again and he lifts his head to look at Clint. He can’t help but sort of like him, against his better judgment. He’s got gumption, and he’s undeniably charming about how he uses it.

 

"You said talk so I'm talking. Go on, ask me whatever you want. I can't promise it'll be the truth but I guarantee you'll be entertained."  Clint finished off his granola bar and stuffed the wrapped back into his quiver.

 

Bruce’s head snapped towards a noise in the distance that sounded like someone knocking something over, and his pupils dilated a small amount.

 

“Please, leave,” he said suddenly, firmly. “Please.”

 

He didn’t want to like this boy. He didn’t want to have anything to look forward to. He didn’t want anything to worry about. He didn’t want connections, and if this boy kept on with his silly questions and honesty, Bruce was going to want something. He’d managed a very long time without wanting a thing, and it was the easiest way to live his life.

 

Clint nodded and started to ease back into the shadows. Just before he was out of sight he shot a smile back at Bruce.   
  
"Same time tomorrow big guy."  he said and then he was gone.

 

Unfortunately, same time next day, his cage was under surveillance by three different carnival workers. Occasionally they would look at him, but they would never speak to him.

 

He never did once look up.

 

Clint checked back every day, every other hour, but there was always anywhere from three to five people watching him at any given moment.

Days passed and Clint began to wonder if there was a way to get _inside_ the cage. But there wasn’t a door.

 

In fact, Clint did his fair share of peeking at the cage. It was one solid piece of carved wood. He must have gotten in through the front before the bars were added. The massive wheels where solid steel with a rubber ring around them, meant to hold the weight of the green bulk he would become. The wooden walls were incredibly thick, and the chains inside appeared to connect _inside_ the wood. He figured there was metal inlaid in the cage to make it sturdier, with a layer of wood outside and inside.

 

Altogether, the more he looked at it, the more he realized how well it was structured to hold the Monster.

 

Finally another big show came around. Again Clint watched them stab at Bruce until he lost control and changed. Again the people laughed and Clint looked down on them with disdain. These high society snobs who thought they were so far above the rest of them were no better than the dirty drunkards who set up and bet on dog fights.   
  
He went through his act more quickly than usual. The others gave him questioning looks as he left the tent but he faked a few sneezes and let them assume he was getting sick. It was a good cover and let him pass without suspicion as he slipped away to Bruce's cage.

 

There was no one guarding it, but to his surprise, Bruce wasn’t in his usual stance. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his chains were rattling, and his face was hidden within the safe concave of his legs. He was visibly trembling, and bleeding from a rather severe looking wound in his side.

 

It was that wound that had caused him to change. He could always release the Monster within the first few minutes. He felt the buzz of his anger as soon as they started rolling his cage into the circle. The Monster knew what that meant, and he could really scare the pants off the workers by turning before the show even started.

 

But he always liked to think he was in control of the Monster. He liked to think himself above it. And so he would endure, and endure, and endure. He would split open and bleed and hold it back until the film between himself and the Monster became so thin that he couldn’t hold him back anymore.

 

It was that wound. It had punctured him almost a full two inches, might have even ruptured something. The pain was blistering, and he changed so fast it scared the circus worker senseless. One swing of a chained fist and it snapped the metal pole in two and Clint had never seen anyone run so fast in his life.

 

It only made the audience laugh harder.

 

Bruce still had the remnants of someone’s spit cup on him, and he reeked of already chewed tobacco and blood, and he was shaking. He could feel the very tip of the metal spike still in his side, it was burning him.

 

"Hey man," Clint said, coming up to the bars. He felt a little sick seeing the blood running down Bruce's side. He was used to wounds like this but not here. Carnival wounds were supposed to be small. And that these were intentional, for an act no less, made him sick. It wasn't as if Bruce had done anything wrong and needed to be punished. They just thought it was entertaining. It made his blood boil a little. He wasn't any better than them when it came down to it but he never beat someone for laughs.

 

Bruce looked up so fast he got whiplash. His eyes were a frightening shade of green, his pupils almost gone entirely, and his nostrils were flared. His fists tightened on his knees and his brows knitted and there were tears in his eyes. But he didn’t look sad; he didn’t even particularly look like he was in pain. He looked _angry_.

 

But seeing Clint made him visibly relax a little. His breathing slowed a little and his hands unclenched and his pupils grew a little, even his eyes seemed to be a less vivid shade of green.

 

“You again,” he said simply, his voice hoarse from screaming. “I told you to leave.”

 

"And I said I'd be back." Clint retorted with a smirk. Then his smile slipped and he nodded towards the wound. "That looks pretty bad. You're losing a lot of blood."

 

Bruce skipped over the statement entirely. “I specifically requested extra security,” he said bitterly. “Don’t you know how to take a hint? I don’t want you to be my friend, and I don’t want you to save me. I don’t want your pity, I don’t even want your interest. I’m not going to be the newest thing that keeps you from being bored. I have to do that enough for the sows that pay to come and watch me bleed.”

 

His words were harsh and his eyes were glowing brighter now, and his toes and fingers were curled.

 

Clint just shrugged. "You only make yourself more interesting. And I love a challenge. It's stupid, I know, but so am I so who really cares? I'm not going to laugh at you either. You're a human being in pain. Why would that make me laugh?"

 

“I’m not a human being; don’t pretend like you can file me under one category or another. You’ve got no idea what I am. _I_ don’t even know what I am. I don’t want your help and I don’t want your hurt. I don’t want to _feel_ anything. I don’t want you around, I can’t make it any clearer than that.”

 

Clint's eyes went dark and he took a step back. He'd heard stuff like that a lot growing up. He didn't know why it bothered him now. Maybe he'd thought Bruce would be desperate for someone to talk to also.   
  
"Yeah. Fine. Fuck it. I was going to offer to stitch up that wound for you but forget it. And fuck you too." Clint said with a shrug. His hand tightened around his bow. "I'll just go do some target practice. Mind if I use your cage? The bars will make things interesting."

 

Bruce didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes and bowed his head and crossed his legs. He slowly shifted back to his meditative pose and closed his eyes tight enough that the tears wouldn’t flow.

 

His fingers trembled as he touched their tips to his thumb and his breathing was uneven as he listened to Clint walk away. His steps were heavy. He was upset.

 

This was better than a friendship though. He was too far gone in his world of closed-off treachery to allow another human soul near. His control was too fragile, his will was too hard. There was no room in him for another person. He had to focus his energy on the Monster, keeping it safe, keeping it happy, and keeping it inside. If he cared for Clint then he would be a distraction. He would think about what Clint was doing, he would worry about his routine high up in the circus tent. He would wonder when he’d get to see him next, and feel heartbreak if he didn’t come on time. Friendships were messy and hard to keep together even before he fused with the Monster, even harder now.

 

He wasn’t ever alone, anyway. The Monster was more or less like a friend, somewhat like a child, very hard to sate and it was a full time job keeping him content and out of harm’s way. He didn’t so much talk to the Monster, after all the Monster couldn’t speak much English whatsoever. He would think to the Monster, think in pictures and in feelings and in colors, and they would communicate. It was sometimes warm, sometimes loud, but never too much. Always just the right amount, because he could give all of himself to it.

 

He couldn’t divide himself between the Monster and Clint. He wouldn’t survive the stress.

 

There was silence around the cage for a few minutes. Then, out of the darkness, an arrow came flying towards the cage, passing perfectly through the bars and embedding itself in the wood maybe a centimeter from Bruce's toe. Wrapped around the shaft was a small roll of bandage with a note tacked to it.  
  
 _At least do something about the bleeding._

Bruce read the note, but didn’t make a move towards the arrow. His hand remained inside the shackle. After a long moment he did reach out to see if the shackle would allow him to reach, and once he closed his hand around the shaft, he pried it up out of the wood. And then he tossed the entire thing, note, bandage and all into a corner of his cage at the front where the people looking through the bars wouldn’t be able to see it.

 

Clint rolled his eyes. Bruce could have at least tried to stop the bleeding. He didn't have to clean himself up or wrap up the wound if he was scared he'd be caught. Using something to apply pressure and cover the wound for a little while might save his life and he could always toss it away if he heard someone coming.  
  
Clint scribbled another little note telling Bruce how stupid he was then thought better of it. Obviously he wasn't going to listen. So instead he put the arrow away and settled back into his tree to keep watch on the cage until someone else showed up.

 

Already Clint was beginning to settle into the corners of Bruce’s mind, and it was aggravating the hell out of him. He couldn’t help but start wondering when Clint would inevitably visit his cage again. His mind was losing its cadence; Clint was worming his way into the mix.

 

His mind had once been nothing but examining the cage for hairline fractures in his spare time, meditating, and communicating with the monster when he felt restless.

 

Now suddenly Clint wanted in on his mental rhythm and it was infuriating. While meditating Bruce would open his eyes to check if Clint was nearby. But he’d asked for extra security and the staff had delivered. There’s no way he’d walk right up to the cage with so many people standing nearby, and there’s no way such a new worker would be put on guard duty for the Monster.

 

On his end Clint kept a near constant watch on the cage. He didn't know why but Bruce had captured his attention. So when he wasn't practicing his tricks he was usually in his tree, watching Bruce's attempts at meditation or counting how much time went by before someone brought the poor guy a meal. One time he'd even gotten daring and in the middle of the night had managed to sneak past the less than attentive guards and climb up onto the top of the cage to spend the night.  
  
It was soothing for him. Having something to focus on meant he didn't spend all his time wondering what had become of his brother, or all the people he'd hurt, or where he would be now if things had gone differently. There were less nightmares when he spent his time watching Bruce because despite the man pushing him away, he wasn't someone Clint had hurt and that made him safe.

 

He watched Bruce’s performance as usual, and he was brutalized a little less than last time – Clint could see a little line of stitches, maybe they realized that he was capable of being killed – but the monster’s rage seemed all the more real. Clint could see the sadness in the Monster’s eyes, the restrained movements were heavy and methodical. It seemed even a creature as majestic and feral as whatever the Monster really was could even be tamed.

 

His screams seemed mechanical, his struggles systematic, just going through the motions. He was probably bored out of his mind, and knew what to do to get it all over with. When he changed back and he was being wheeled away, Bruce looked up wearily and made eye contact with Clint from where he was hiding in the rafters and ropes of the tent.

 

The next day, Clint was approached by the ringmaster with an arrow in hand, bandage and note wrapped around it. Clint nearly panicked, but the man seemed pleasant as he handed it to him.

 

“I’ve never actually spoken to you about it,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “The Monster is a very dangerous creature, and we don’t allow staff that isn’t trained to guard it near it. Please, for your own safety, stay away.” And then he offered Clint a smile that almost seemed genuine, and walked away.

 

Clint huffed and crossed his arms. He was probably better trained than any of them and he could definitely get away fast enough if something ever happened which he doubted it would. Bruce was pretty well in control of himself, and only seemed to turn when he was injured. So as long as Clint didn't shoot him in the knee he'd probably be fine.  
  
He realized then that the ringmaster wasn't going back to his tent. He was heading toward the cage. Probably to tell Bruce to report him if he ever came to close again. Still, it might be interesting to hear what lies the man was going to spread about him so he followed, creeping close enough to hear what was being said while taking care not to be seen.  
  
He couldn't see the ringmaster from his position but he could hear him easy enough and what he was saying made Clint cringe.  
  
"What the hell did you think you were doing?" the man yelled. "You do understand the rules, don't you? Or are you too stupid to even recognize when you're putting one of our performers in danger? No one is allowed to talk to you for a reason, just like we don't let anyone go pet the lions. I thought you might be human enough to understand why we keep people away from you. You're a brutish, disgusting freak who could have easily killed one of our best performers!"  
  
He stopped to take a breath before continuing, getting angrier and angrier as he went.  
  
"Did you think he was your friend? Is that what you were hoping for? You aren't allowed to have friends. Do you understand that or do I need to use smaller words you might know? If someone tries to talk to you, you report it, got it? If I find out you were talking to anyone ever again you'll be getting the same treatment as any other animal that acts out."

 

“I’d like to report a fool in a red coat who’s talking to me an awful lot right now, _sir_ ,” Bruce said, his voice bitter and sharp as he looked up, blood running down from a cut in his hairline and dying his eyesockets crimson.

 

The ringmaster's lip curled in an angry sneer. "Stubborn aren't you? Then I'll have to treat you like any other obstinate animal. I'm cutting off your meals. You'll be fed again when you've apologized."  
  
And with that he turned and strode back to his tent.

 

Bruce looked furious. The other workers even backed up and gave him some distance. But after a while his livid expression cracked, crumbled, and then he was crying.

 

He wasn’t really sad, he was angrier than anything, but it hurt so bad.

He came to this circus by choice, three years ago. And they’d seemed so impressed with him at the time, and the ringmaster was so happy because he was bringing in heaps of money.

 

And then abruptly, things changed. One worker got too cocky, got too close, and had her leg broken so badly it had to be amputated.

Since then – honestly, through no fault of his own – he was treated for what he was. It was probably for the best, anyway, because if the staff grew too comfortable with him they could get hurt too. And he didn’t want anyone to get hurt because of him ever again. He couldn’t live with the guilt.

 

But now they were equating him to animals.

They were trying to rob him of every last shred of his humanity.

And slowly, it was working. He was starting to feel like one of the animal attractions. He felt cold and senseless, he wondered if eventually he would forget how to talk and start lashing out at anyone who got near, just like the lions.

 

He knew they wouldn’t beat him like they did the lions, they wouldn’t risk anything like that. But he knew they could be cruel, so cruel. He felt shriveled, shrunken in on himself, and he cried.

 

Night came and everyone crowded into the main tent. There wasn't a show tonight but their contortionist had worked out a new routine with the knife thrower and everyone was interested in seeing it. Bruce apparently was too sad to be considered a threat right now and so he was left alone. After the first five minutes Clint had gotten bored and slipped out, using the darkness as a cover as he approached the cage.   
  
He kept low, not wanting Bruce to see him and get in any more trouble, and managed to get close enough that he was crouching just below the bars. He reached up and slipped an apple through the bars, listening to it roll across the wooden floor. It was his way of saying he was sorry and once he was sure Bruce must have seen it he turned to leave again.

 

“I’m from Ohio,” Bruce suddenly said, and he picked up the apple without hesitation. He was feeling more than a little rebellious, desperate to hold onto his humanity. Even the Monster inside him felt drawn to Clint, and he couldn’t push him away at this point. He needed Clint to help him feel human.

 

Clint stopped and slowly stood so Bruce could see him. He didn't turn and face him but he didn't walk away either. He knew what this was. Bruce was angry and wanted to act out. He was using him. That didn't bother Clint too much. He had been using Bruce too. But he was still a little pissed at the way Bruce had dismissed him and he wanted the other man to know it.   
  
"We've both come a long way then." he said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

 

Bruce ran his thumb over the skin of the apple with a sigh, and his chains rattled as he lifted his other hand to wipe away his tears.

 

“I’m not a monster,” Bruce said firmly, looking up at the back of Clint’s head. “The other guy is, but I’m not. _I’m_ _not a monster_.”

 

He didn’t sound like he believed himself, but he sure sounded like he wanted to.

 

"I never thought you were." Clint said honestly. 'Monster' was never the word he had associated with Bruce. He had always seemed like a man, just one who was a little different from everyone else.

 

Bruce looked like he was going to cry again, but he scrunched up his face to avoid it and looked down at the apple.

Clint was the first person in a very, very long time to say he didn’t think Bruce was a monster. The last person that said that was dead, because of the very monster she became too comfortable with.

 

He hung his head again and took several slow, stabilizing breaths.

 

“I’m scared of people,” he said after a moment. “Even before this… affliction, I was afraid of people. I dealt with them, but it was never my favorite thing to do. I had to become a freak to realize how much I miss people.”

 

"There's nothing to be afraid of with most people. The only ones you should worry about are the ones that will hurt you on purpose. Just because they can. And they don't even count as people. Not really." Clint said, finally turning back around to face Bruce. "You're more of a person than they are."

 

“I’m not so sure. I have to keep locked in a cage to keep from hurting people,” Bruce looked down at the apple again and picked off a small speck. “They don’t know, no one knows but me, nobody ever asks. The Monster, he… he’s scared. He’s confused. He doesn’t know why we’re locked in this cage, he doesn’t know why people hurt us, or why they laugh or throw things. He’s filled with anger, every moment of every day he’s trying to break out and leave and hurt the people who hurt him. He’s like a child, he’s vengeful and frightened. I’ve tried to explain it to him, but… well, he doesn’t speak very many words, and that makes it difficult.”

 

"Have you tried teaching him?" Clint asked. He knew what that was like. Being stupid was hard and people who thought they were helping only made it worse. "I couldn't read until I was seventeen because no one tried to teach me. They just expected me to know how and they kept explaining why I should be able to but no one actually taught me." he explained. "Maybe that's what you need to do with him. Instead of expecting him to know things you might need to teach him. Even idiots can learn if you try."

 

“Yes, I’ve tried,” Bruce thought about the sessions where he attempted to teach a part of his brain words he already knew, and it was never very fruitful. “He understands the words hurt, break, sad and smash. Because those are the only things he’s had any experience with.”

 

"That's pretty depressing." Clint said. "But that's probably your fault. You need experience to learn and all you've let him experience is the bad stuff. Like getting locked up in here. It's like putting a kid in time out for no reason. He's not going to learn anything that way."

 

“He’s dangerous, I can’t just go strolling around a city block with him beating at the cages of my mind. Here, in an actual cage, the people are safe. He’s subdued, and he’s unhappy, but he’s not hurting anyone. Out in the real world, I could _never_ let him out. Here, he comes out every so often and rages for a little bit until he’s tired and then he goes away. I couldn’t keep him inside forever out there.”

 

"If he was happy you might not need to. And you seem to have him under control now." Clint argued. "But you know yourself better than I do. Maybe you're two seconds away from letting the other guy burst free and the first thing he'd do would is rip off my head."

 

“No, he likes you,” Bruce laughed bitterly and lifted the apple to take a bite. It was crisp and sweet and so much better than anything the workers ever gave him. “Because you talk to me without hurting me, he knows you’re not a threat. He doesn’t feel that way with anything else.”

 

"Not a threat huh?" Clint laughed. He grabbed onto the bars and used them to pull himself up onto the roof of the cage. He felt more comfortable up high instead of out in the open. "He doesn't know me then." he said, laying down on his back on top of the cage. The wood was hard but not uncomfortable and he could still talk to Bruce.

 

“Well, to be fair, neither do I,” Bruce said, looking up at the roof of the cage as if he could see Cint, and he took another bite of the apple. “And… I don’t know, maybe it’s better that way, and maybe it isn’t.”

 

He sighed and looked at the apple, its white fruit glistening through the red skin. He didn’t feel very hungry, but he knew Clint wouldn’t be able to sneak him food often, and there was no way in hell he would apologize to the ringmaster. This might be the only thing he had to eat in a while.

 

He really wanted to destroy it though. Ever since his affliction, he was cursed with the subconscious desire to crush anything and everything he saw. People, pieces of paper, vehicles, glass windows, birds, trash cans. Anything he laid eyes on, he would think about how he could destroy it. It was an unnerving burden he carried with him always.

 

He’d thought about how easy it would be to destroy Clint on more than one occasion, too. As with everything else in front of him, he thought about how he could reach through the bars and take his head and crush it, how he could release the Monster and frighten him, how easily he could spill his blood.

 

It frightened him, how fragile people were. 

 

"Probably. You'd just tell me to get lost again." Clint said a little bitterly. It had hurt a little. It hadn't been surprising but usually people took a little more time before they threw him out. But Bruce was smart and had dodged a bullet by getting it out of the way early.  
  
But he kind of liked Bruce. As sad and downtrodden as he was he seemed like a legitimately good guy. That meant something to Clint.

 

Bruce sighed slow and long. “I’m sorry, I’m just… excessively cautious. I don’t want – ” he cut himself off and swallowed hard. It seemed like he was being assuming, and he didn’t want that, but it was rude not to finish your sentences, and he hated it when other people used to do that to him. “I don’t want to care about something and lose it again.”

 

Clint sighed and rolled over to the edge so he could hang down and look at Bruce. The man looked so small and dejected. It made Clint want to hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay. Like his brother used to do for him. But he couldn't. Even if he did it wouldn't really solve anything.  
  
"You don't have to care about me. In fact, I think we should agree to that. We can talk and pretend to be friends but not care about each other. That just messes everything up. But if we pretend we won't be lonely." Clint suggested.

 

Bruce looked up at Clint with a sad smile. “That sounds nice,” he said with a nod. “Just, please… be careful. Don’t let yourself get too comfortable with me. That’s how people get hurt – once they forget how dangerous I can be.” And he added after a moment, “And don’t get caught talking to me. Anything you bring here you have to carry away too, and don’t let anyone see you. You’ll get in trouble.”

 

"I'm a sniper. I know how not to be seen. I spent all night on top of here once." he replied a little smugly. "So do we have a deal?"

 

Bruce knew he spent the night on top of his cage. There’d been no mistaking the scrabbling sound of someone settling directly overhead. But he figured he’d let the kid think he was indestructible.

 

“Deal,” he said, and took another bite of the apple.

 

The show ended and Clint had to leave quickly so he wouldn't be noticed by Bruce's guards. Before he left he assured Bruce he would be back as soon as he could.


	2. Chapter 2

After that he visited every chance he got. It wasn't often but it gave them both some time to just sit and talk. Usually Clint brought little presents. For the most part it was food, whatever he could scrape together that Bruce would be able to eat quickly. Sometimes he brought other things. Once he brought along some playing cards and they had played go fish with some difficulty. Another time he brought a small book Bruce could hide and read when he was alone and Clint couldn't get to him. Once, after a particularly brutal performance, Clint had managed to scrape together some antiseptic wipes so he could clean his wounds.  
  
Usually they just talked and Clint was okay with that. He liked talking. They avoided anything really personal but still got to know each other on a basic level. He found out Bruce was 31 and must have gone to college at some point. He didn't know where or for what but once, when he was in a decent mood, Clint had gotten him to tell a story about a prank his old roommate had pulled on him. He learned that Bruce was alone, like him, and that he had never been to a circus before he arrived there.  
  
He learned other things too. Like how Bruce sounded when he laughed which he didn't do nearly often enough. Or how sad he got when he mentioned his old life. He knew that Bruce was, as he had suspected, a genuinely good man who would do anything not to hurt people.  
  
Clint respected him for that. And admired him. And maybe liked him a little. 

 

Bruce certainly liked Clint, and he hated Clint for allowing it to go this far. But then again, it was mostly his fault for acting out after the ringmaster told him not to talk to anyone. He’d almost forgotten how nice it felt to have conversations about absolutely nothing.

 

It was relaxing, doing nothing things with Clint. He’d feel a little flutter in the back of his mind whenever he’d come around, and he knew it was the other guy getting excited to see him again.

 

Maybe it wasn’t so bad, dividing himself between the Monster and Clint. It helped that the Monster really seemed to like Clint. He would always settle down and seemed almost happy whenever the archer would come around. Of course he would get similarly upset whenever Clint had to leave.

 

He learned little things about Clint in turn. How he was only nineteen years old, and he’d been in the circus for a long time in his youth. He learned that Clint had a brother, and also learned very quickly that it wasn’t okay to talk about him. He learned that Clint had killed before, but that was okay, because Bruce had too. They didn’t talk much about it, but it was almost comforting to know they shared their past in that way.

 

Once their visits were forced apart by almost two weeks, and Bruce could feel the other guy getting more and more restless. He didn’t even have a performance to be distracted by. One scheduling conflict after another had Clint waiting ten days before he could slip his way to the unguarded cage.

 

The reaction in Bruce’s head was strong and immediate, and he broke into a silly grin because of the influx of the other guy’s emotions.

 

“He’s learned your name,” he said, before Clint could even say hello.

 

"Should I be flattered?" Clint laughed, passing some cheese and crackers wrapped in a napkin through the bars. He leaned against the bars and smirked. "I suppose I should return the favor. Does he have a name?"

 

“No,” Bruce said, breaking off a piece of cheese and eating it with one of the crackers. “He’s gotten sort of used to Monster, but I guess that’s pretty sad. Some of the staff have called him ‘The Great Hulking Monster’ which has shortened to a nickname of ‘Hulk’ but I don’t think that’s a real name either.”

 

"It's better than Monster. At it sort of suits him." Clint said with a shrug. He pulled out his own dinner, another granola bar, and started eating too. "So he knows me, huh? I take it that's not a bad thing or you'd be chasing me away. What's he say about me?"

 

“Well he doesn’t _say_ much of anything,” Bruce laughed as he chewed a small hunk of cheese. “I don’t think he understands that Clint is your name, I think he thinks that you’re called a Clint. He says your name a lot whenever you’re around, and he’s usually pretty calm.” He looked sad for a moment as he swallowed. “He’s sad when you leave. He’s never sure if you’ll be back again.”

 

Clint frowned. He looked away, trying to think of what to say. The Hulk really was like a child in a lot of ways and Clint had never had to deal with kids before. He didn't know what he was supposed to do to make him feel better so he said the only thing he could think of. "I'll always come back. It might just take me a while. Is there a way you can tell him that? That I promise to come back when I can?"

 

“I’m not going to make him promises that you can’t be sure to keep. There are too many variables. He’s experienced physical pain, but never emotional. I’m not willing to let him.” Bruce was always surprised with how protective he felt about the other guy.

 

"I don't plan on leaving." Clint assured him. He hesitantly reached through the bars, his hand stopping about a foot from Bruce, leaving closing the space up to him. They had never touched before. It had always seemed too intimate and out of place with their arrangement. But Bruce seemed like he needed it and Clint was willing to offer him that comfort.

 

Bruce shied away from the reach immediately. It was instinctual. Over the past three years, hands had done nothing but hurt him.

 

“You can’t expect to stay in a circus your whole life,” he said, looking at Clint’s out stretched hand instead of his face. “You’re young, you have options. You don’t want to stay here forever.”

 

"Neither do you." Clint said, not withdrawing his hand. "This is the safest place for me right now. Just like you. If I leave chances are I'll be hunted down and killed."  
  
He'd never said that to anyone before. Most people would be terrified to learn about what he had done in the past and the sort of reputation he had built for himself in the last couple of years. But if anyone would understand it would be Bruce. Still, it was a little frightening to be so honest with someone.

 

Bruce’s eyes snapped up from Clint’s hand to his face and he looked him over carefully. He swallowed hard and realized suddenly that he didn’t want Clint to leave. He was officially attached, and it made his stomach turn just thinking about it. Clint wouldn’t stay forever, he knew that. Nothing was permanent.

 

But touching him, that would make it official. It would seal the strange bond that they had, it would change it to physical. It would be tangible, real. And Clint would be the first person he’d touched in over two years.

 

Licking his lips anxiously he looked back to his hand as if he was expecting it to reach out and grab him at any second.

 

If he touched him, everything would be worse.

If he touched him, he would know what Clint feels like.

If he touched him, he would long for the next time he’d be touched.

If he touched him, he would be disappointed when he isn’t touched often enough.

If he touched him, it would be committing to a long period of time where he’d want to _keep_ touching him.

 

He lifted his hand and laced his fingers between the spaces of Clint’s, and he wept.

 

Clint panicked. He didn't want to make Bruce upset. That was the exact opposite of what he had wanted. He had offered his hand to comfort Bruce, not to hurt him.  
  
His fingers tightened protectively around Bruce's and he realized just how frail the other man felt. His skin was thin and bones felt brittle beneath his own strong hand.  He worried for a moment that he might hurt him and instantly loosened his grip.  
  
"I'm sorry, Bruce." he said hastily, trying to draw his hand back. "Please don't cry. I didn't want to hurt you. I'm sorry."

 

“Unh, I’m a mess,” Bruce lifted his other hand to try to wipe his tears away, but for every one he banished, three more fell. “No, you’re not hurting me, you’re not hurting me.”

He wasn’t crying because he was sad, or in pain. It was the kind of tears that fell when there was a happy ending in a TV show you’ve been watching since season one.

 

He tightened his own fingers, unwilling to let Clint pull away just yet. He didn’t know when the next time he’d be touched gently, and he didn’t want to lose it yet. He looked at Clint’s hand, rubbing his thumb along the length of the archer’s. His fingers were long and sturdy and rough. Bruce wanted to know where Clint got all the little scars on his knuckles.

 

“Thank you,” he murmured after a moment, and he leaned down to press his hot forehead to the archer’s cool knuckles.

 

Clint's eyebrows drew together in confusion but he stopped trying to pull away. Instead he turned his hand, holding Bruce's head and pressing forward to cup his cheek. His face was warm and wet with tears and prickly with stubble, but still so soft against his calloused fingers.   
  
Then he heard laughter in the distance, getting closer. He pressed his hand against Bruce's cheek one last time before pulling away.  
  
"I'll be back soon." he promised before sprinting off into the darkness.

 

Bruce tried not to attach any meaning to “soon” because it could be three days or it could be two weeks. He didn’t want to be disappointed. He could feel the Monster crying, reaching out, he wanted Clint to come back, didn’t understand why he was leaving again.

 

No, not the Monster. Clint liked the nickname Hulk. He was the Hulk.

 

The Hulk didn’t know anything beyond this cage. He didn’t know why Clint left, where he left to, or where he came from, because all he knew was the worn wood and metal bars.

 

The feeling of Clint’s hand was burned into his cheek now, and possibly forever, because he knew that there was nowhere else he could go. If the circus went out of business, then he’d be exposed. But no, it wouldn’t, because he alone brought in 50% of the income, because he was such a frightening and interesting spectacle, and there was no shortage of people in the world who longed to see frightening and interesting things.

 

Clint lay in his nest that night (he had a tent with a bed but he never used it. It felt too exposed) staring at his hand. He could still feel Bruce's thin fingers between his. They had fit almost perfectly, his muscled and Bruce's thin enough to slip into the spaces.   
  
Then there was the feel of his cheek. It had been so warm and so soft...It was hard to believe someone so fragile housed something so deadly. But that was part of what made him so amazing.  
  
Yeah he shouldn't be thinking like that. That was a dangerous path to go down. They were friends. Fake friends. Bruce had needed comfort and that was it. It would probably never happen again.  
  
Two weeks had gone by before Clint got another chance to visit Bruce. He felt so bad about it he stole a piece of chocolate from one of the venders as an apology.  
  
"I'm sorry it took so long." he said, slipping the treat inside the cage. Usually once he had delivered his little gift he would climb up onto the top of the cage or lean against the bars but he didn't this time. He didn't even pull his hand out of the cage. He let it rest on the wood, waiting to see what Bruce would do.

 

Bruce didn’t hesitate to brush his fingers against Clint’s as he took the chocolate with a small smile. His cheek was actually clean shaven, and he looked much younger without the salt-and-pepper stubble. “Thank you,” he murmured, taking a small bite from the corner of the treat. “Did I ever tell you I liked dark chocolate, or did you just guess?”

 

Clint shrugged and smiled. "I went with something I like. It's not something weird and if you didn't like it I could have it."

 

Bruce laughed and broke the treat in half, insisting the larger of the two on Clint. They nibbled their chocolate together and talked about what words would be most important to teach to the Hulk, and other nothing things.

 

Bruce liked Clint. He hesitated to call them friends, he hesitated to care about him, but yes. He definitely liked him. He was honest and brave and immature and he was everything about youth that Bruce longed to have again.

 

And then came the night where the scheduling was mixed up a little bit, and for the first time, Clint’s act came before Bruce’s. His cage was wheeled up into the shadows of the tent and he was facing it in such a way that he could see everything. And he was awed.

 

The tent went dark and Clint walked to the center of the ring. He took his bow off his back and the whole tent went silent. He took aim, drawing back and breathing out, his muscles stretching the thin fabric of his purple costume. He was perfectly still, then released. The arrow struck dead center and there was a smattering of polite applause. He smiled and in a flash, before most of the audience had even realized what had happened he had shot another three arrows, hitting dead center and splitting the previous arrow's shaft every time.  
  
His act continued like that, his feats growing more and more impossible. He used a stand to hold himself up on his hands while using his feet to pull the strings, making his leg muscles tighten and bulge. Another bullseye.  
  
He shot two glass bottles off a woman's head without looking. He shot a perfect star blind folded. He was perfect. He didn't even break a sweat until the trapeze came down.  
  
He disappeared then, using an old magician's trick he had been taught to reappear up on the stand, holding the bar, with his bow hanging on his arm.   
  
He flew forward, sweat shining on his face. He flipped himself up so he was holding on with his knees and took his shot as he swung through the air. Perfect. Then he jumped, grabbing onto the other bar and swinging back to the opposite stand. He continued on the train for a while, flying and shooting, always hitting his mark.  
  
By the time he came to his finale the front of his costume was showing signs of his exertion, a dark spot forming across his chest making the material cling even more. One more stunt and he was done.  
  
He took a deep breath and jumped. As he flew he shifted his bow and nocked his arrow, taking aim and letting it fly in the milliseconds he had before he had to grab the other bar or plummet to his death. He barely managed to grab the bar and when he turned to look back he saw that he had missed the center by one inch.

 

Nobody else seemed to notice, however, as the entire tent exploded in applause. He was clearly polite in dismounting and bowing, but Bruce could see the way he was taut and angry with himself. He was already learning to read the little things that Clint would do when he was angry – how he would clench his fingers and unclench them, how he would smile without his eyes crinkling.

 

“That’s my boy!” the ringmaster said to him once he was out of the ring, and various workers were picking his arrows out of where he shot them. “You were perfect! And on such an important night, we have a man in the audience who might invest in us, and you didn’t miss a mark, this is a good day for you, and for me!”

 

"Thank you sir." Clint said politely. "I hope I impressed him."  
  
Inside he was seething. He hadn't made a mistake like that since he was a kid. It was so stupid. He had been thinking about what Bruce might think of his performance and he hadn't been paying as much attention as he should have been and he'd missed by an inch. A whole inch!  
  
He ducked out of the tent, claiming the need to shower and ran to hide inside his tent. He had at least an hour until Bruce would be free to talk which would give him plenty of time to clean up and take care of his mistake.

 

But on his way there, he heard something new. He’d almost memorized the speech the ringmaster would give right before Bruce was wheeled out, but this was new.

 

“ _Ladies and Gentlemen, you are about to witness something we’ve never before showed to our general audiences. If you have a weak constitution, we suggest you leave right now, for you are about to observe a monster never before seen in human history._ ”

 

Bruce was actually struggling and shouting in his cage, his chains rattling and his voice hoarse as he was wheeled out. There were _children_ in the audience! He knew the only reason they’d never done this before was because they usually charged so high for people to see him, and they were only doing this to impress the investor.

 

If the audience was frightened or offended, the circus still couldn’t be sued. He was there willingly; he’d signed a waiver and a contract, freeing the circus from any legal harm. Legally he was allowed to leave whenever he wanted to, but they knew he would never leave because where else could he possibly go?

 

Clint was already back in the tent, watching with horror as an electric cattle prod was switched on with a dull buzz.

 

“No, for God’s sake, there are children – !!” Bruce started to protest, but he was jabbed in the ribs hard and the shock was so painful that his mind was gone.

 

Clint winced, closing his eyes to try to block it out. It was worse than anything they had done before and even if he couldn't see it he could hear it. He could hear people screaming, others laughing, Bruce shrieking in pain and then over it all there was the roar of the Hulk. It made him sick to his stomach.  
  
Even after the Hulk had taken over they didn't stop. He could hear him yell and beat the cage every time they prodded him again. It was horrendous and Clint couldn't stand it for much longer. He opened his eyes to see people storming out, holding crying children who would never forget what they saw. Others laughed and yelled, throwing things into the arena, the occasional bottle hitting the cage and making the Hulk even angrier.  
  
Clint was trembling, his vision going red. They couldn't do this! No sane human being could ever be so cruel. And he couldn't just stand there and let it happen.

 

The investor in the audience had his fingers steepled in front of his face, but it didn’t hide his sadistic grin.

More people stayed than left, howling with laughter or with expressions of horror on their faces.

 

And Clint was the only one who heard it. The first time he ever heard the Hulk speak a word in all the times he’d seen his performances.

 

“ _STOOOP!_ ” he roared, and it seemed to startle the carnival worker into silence, but one sharp look from the ringmaster and he jabbed the cattle prod into the Hulk’s ribs again.

 

Clint couldn't hold back any more after that. He lifted his bow, knocked an arrow and shot the prod out of the worker's hands.  
  
"Leave him alone!" he shouted, stepping further into the tent. His vision was going red with anger but he had stopped shaking. He kept walking, eyes on the worker and the ring master until he was in front of the cage where he fell into a practiced battle stance.

 

The audience was convinced this was a part of the act and now some were clapping and some were booing.

 

The ringmaster looked furious as he walked forward, unafraid of the arrow the archer held. “ _WHAT_ in God’s name do you think you’re doing boy?” he hissed. The Hulk had stopped roaring and seemed much more subdued, his green eyes trained hard on the archer, and he was making low grunting noises in his chest with each heaving breath. “This creature is here for the peoples’ entertainment, it’s not something you need to protect!”

 

He reached up and backhanded Clint across the face before he could even reply, and the archer was so surprised that he could neither dodge nor keep himself from stumbling backwards.

 

“ _CLINT!_ ” The Hulk hollered, jerking at his chains again and he was roaring all over again.

 

"I'm fine big guy." Clint said, getting back up. He glared at the ringmaster and grabbed another arrow out of his quiver. It was his last one, most of them having been used during his performance, and took aim at the ringmaster.  
  
"He's not some animal you can kick around for your amusement! He's a person and you can't treat him like this."

 

“As a matter of fact, kiddo, I _can_ ,” the ringmaster pulled an envelope out of his jacket and held it crushed in his fist. With his other hand he pointed at the Hulk. “This beast sold his _soul_ to me because it’s too afraid of his own _skin_ to function in polite society! I have the rights to do everything I want to it. And if you don’t step down right now, you’ll be out of my employ faster than you can blink.”

 

Clint hesitated for a minute. Bruce had never said he'd been forced into working here and with how much he feared the Hulk it made sense that he would have agreed to being locked up.  
  
Then he looked up at the Hulk and he saw the pain and anger there and he didn't care. Bruce may have agreed to this but he wasn't the only one being hurt. He wasn't the only one being put on display. The Hulk had as much of a right to choose as he did and he obviously didn't want to be there.  
  
"Then I guess it doesn't matter if I do this." Clint said and he let the arrow fly. It embedded itself in the ringmaster's shoulder and sealed his fate.

 

He was ambushed by security and held down before he could even breathe, and he was pinned down with a tactic he knows all too well. It’s an impressive move, taught only to a select group of people.

 

It just so happens that the very people he’d been hiding from with the aid of this circus were the only people on the planet who mastered this particular move. He struggled weakly, but he was stripped of his weapons and there was a big show of security ushering out the audience quickly, calling the police and an ambulance for the ringmaster who was shouting how much he was going to sue Clint for and how he was going to be locked up in prison for the rest of his life.

 

The Hulk was roaring incessantly, shouting “ _CLINT CLINT CLINT!_ ” over and over. The ringmaster snarled with anger, and when his attempt to tell the Hulk to shut up didn’t work, he grabbed the cattle prod, switched it to high, and jabbed it directly between the raging beast’s eyes. He fell with a hard thud, and slowly his body shifted back down to Bruce, lying unconscious at the bottom of the cage.

 

“You go rest that shoulder until the ambulance gets here,” the investor suddenly said as he walked forward slowly. “I’ll make sure your staff handles this boy with due haste. And don’t worry, this boy’s dumb stunt will not affect my deal. You have a new business partner.”

 

Now that he was standing so close, Clint could see his whole face and his stomach dropped. He hadn’t been able to tell before because he was so distracted and half of his face had been hidden by his own hands, but this was the leader of the group of mercs that wanted him dead.

 

"Nice to see you again. I see shooting your brother in the gut didn't send the message it was supposed to." he said, trying to smirk up at the man as he thrashed, trying to break the others hold on him. If he didn't get away he was as good as dead. It was only a matter of time before they tore him apart and left nothing even recognizably human in his place.

 

“Pack him up and get him in the truck before the cops get here, boys,” the man addressed his employees. “And weave a tragic tale of how he broke out and got away for the police when they get here. I want this boy wanted across all fifty states.” He spit on the side of Clint’s face, ground it in with the heel of his boot, and walked out of the tent.

 

They tried to hoist him up, with Clint giving them as much trouble as he possibly could. He thrashed and kicked and bit but that only made it worse. For every hit he landed they landed at least four more. He was bleeding before they even managed to get him off the ground and he could feel one of his teeth come loose.

 

The trip out to the truck was grueling, but they immobilized him almost completely by holding onto pressure points in his wrists and throat, bound him with _chains_ no less, and threw him in the truck.

 

Clint opened his mouth to cry out, not that he was expecting much help, but was cut off by a dirty rag shoved between his lips. Then one well placed blow to his head made his whole world go dark.


	3. Chapter 3

A cold splash of water shocked Bruce back to reality. He was in more pain than he had ever experienced after one of his performances and it wasn't until he looked up to see the ringmaster standing beside the cage with an empty bucket that he began to remember why.  
  
"You piece of shit! What did I tell you about talking to people, especially him? Are you so simple minded that you can't recognize a threat when you hear one?" he spat, so furious his face was as red as his coat which was only hanging onto one shoulder. The other was wrapped in layers of white bandage. "If you thought things were tough before you have no idea what you're in for now. I'm going to make your life a living hell."

 

“Where is he?” Bruce demanded, his chains rattling as he pushed himself to an upright position. “What did you do to him!?”

 

He remembered very little. He remembered fear, a deep, shaking fear to his very core, and he remembered the smell of blood.

 

"Gone, as far as I can tell. And good riddance. That little bastard shot me before my new partner and security took care of him. If he gets what he deserves he'll be lying in a shallow grave by morning." the ringmaster sneered.

 

“No,” Bruce moaned, lifting his hands to bury his face away.

 

He knew this would happen. He knew he would lose Clint. He didn’t want it to be this soon, but he knew the risks, and he let himself care anyway.

 

“You don’t deserve human company anyway,” the ringmaster snarled. “And he’s _scum_ to begin with.”

 

“YOU DON’T HAVE THE RIGHT!” Bruce howled, and he was out of his oversized shackles for the first time in three years before the ringmaster could even blink, and he seized him by the shirt, pulling him so tight against the bars his wounded shoulder crushed into the metal. Security was there in an instant, but no one made a move closer. Bruce’s eyes were glowing as he stared at the terrified man with every ounce of the rage he felt. “You’ve made a very big mistake, _sir_. Clint was the last thing I had to lose.”

 

"Well he's gone. And there's nothing you can do about it. Even if you could get out of there, you have a contract. You can't leave the circus." the ringmaster said. It would have sounded better if his voice wasn't shaking but he knew what Bruce could do when he wanted to. And he wasn't crazy. He didn't want to be on the receiving end of that.

 

“ _You_ can do something about it.” Bruce said calmly, still holding him tightly. “If I don’t get him in front of me again, I don’t care what it takes, you can bet I’ll bend these bars apart and I’ll come straight for _you_. You have one week.”

 

He’d never felt so empowered in all his life. He’d never used his affliction to frighten people on purpose, and he should probably feel morally wrong, but right now he hears the Hulk roaring in encouragement in the back of his mind, and he feels fire surging through his blood, and all he wants to do is keep pulling until every one of the ringmaster’s ribs snapped against the bars of the cage.

 

But he let go. He stumbled back in terror and waved security away vigorously. Bruce needed him alive to bring him Clint. If he didn’t deliver in one week… well, he’d figure it out from there. Bruce doubted the Hulk would stop at just the ringmaster if he was released, he’d want to destroy everyone who hurt him. And then he’d go off on a rampage and he could hurt any number of other people.

 

He only hoped the ringmaster wouldn’t call his bluff.

 

The ringmaster was already barking orders, sending people running every direction to call up his investor and see if anyone had seen them leave or to look for tracks. Another team he ordered to start breaking down the circus. He wanted to be able to move out in three days or less in case he didn't find anything.

 

Bruce slipped back into his cuffs and moved into his meditative stance, hands on his crossed knees and head bowed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clint had come to by this time. It was one of the good things about having been hit on the head so many times. He was so used to it he didn't stay down long if it wasn't serious. The chains were an easy fix. He had learned to escape just about everything thanks to some of his old mentors.   
  
Getting out of the truck was more difficult. The door didn't want to budge and when he got it open the truck was still moving. He'd have to jump for it or wait until they had parked and try to fight his way out. He knew which one he liked better. He waited until they had started to slow for a stop light before making his jump, landing and rolling to absorb as much of the impact as he could.  
  
Then he ran. He ran fast and hard until he was sure they weren't following him. Then he slowed and started looking around. He was in a college town. And college town meant law students which meant he might be able to find a way to help Bruce.

 

He was in a library quick as a flash, in the law section, and looking up ways around contracts. He found a hundred thousand loopholes and voids, but unless he had a copy of the contract in front of him to read, he didn’t know what would work.

 

A young woman saw him poring over book after book and approached him after a moment. She had big glasses and a sharp little face and jet black hair and she looked like a very nice person indeed, with her burgundy sweater and worn leather bag. He suddenly felt very, very strange wearing a dirty bright purple spandex jumpsuit, but she didn’t say anything about it.

 

“Studying for a big test?” she asked with a smile as she situated herself in the chair across from him. “Oh my goodness, how did you get that scrape? One moment, I think I have a towelette,” she started to go through her bag. “My name is Ophelia, I’m a law student myself, sophomore. What year are you?” she produced the towelette after a moment and handed it out to him.

 

"Oh I'm not. I'm just...I'm still looking at the school and I wanted to see what was available here." he said, taking the towelette and going to work cleaning his wounds. "But maybe you can help me with something? I've been looking over some mock cases with a club at my school and I'm a little stuck."

 

“Sure I can help you, Mr…?”

 

“Clint.”

 

“Sure I can help you, Clint,” she gave a big smile. She had braces, he noted, as she scooted her chair closer. “What can I help you with?”

 

"I'm looking at how to break a contract that has one party trapped in an unsafe work environment." he explained. He was pleased at himself for being able to sound at least semi-professional.   
  
That got her going. The two of them talked for hours, discussing ways one could break the contract. She used a lot of words he didn't understand and pointed out things in books that were well beyond his fourth grade reading level but what it all boiled down to was that there seemed to be no way out of Bruce's contract without taking it to court or exploiting a loophole they couldn't find without the actual contract.  
  
"What if he just leaves?" he asked finally. "What if he just sneaked out and never went back?"

 

“Well, then, he would be subject to fines and/or jail time for breaking the conditions of his contract. He would be arrested if he was found, and he’d still legally belong to the company. It happens all the time overseas, in third world countries. People sign up to big corporations thinking that it’ll be the job they need, and then they’re trapped and they can never leave. And they get arrested if they try, sometimes even killed. It’s never on the news, though, because those same corporations pay them off. It’s disgusting.”

 

"Do all contracts have to have limits? Here in the states I mean. You can't make an indefinite contract can you?" Clint asked.

 

Ophelia sighed and took off her glasses to rub her eyes. “I can’t tell you anything for sure unless I can see the contract. Without a copy, that makes this incredibly difficult.”

 

"I can't get the contract! And if I don't do something Bruce is going to be stuck there forever." he said, hanging his head. Then he stiffened, realizing what he had just said. He looked up at her, trying to smile. "I mean, figuratively. I get carried away sometimes."

 

“This isn’t a mock case, is it?” She raised her eyebrow at him with a gentle expression. He was silent, and she sighed. “Clint, if this is about a real person, it’s much more serious than any mock case. If you have real reason to believe that a man you know and care about is in danger, then you can tell the police and they’ll go in for you and look over the contract. That’s their job.”  

 

"I don't care..." he said but cut himself off. He'd just risked his life, not for Bruce but for the Hulk, who he barely knew. Bruce was his friend, for real not just for pretend, and he would have done more for him than he had for the Hulk if he needed to.  
  
Hell he was in a library trying to find a way to rescue the man which would probably involve voluntarily walking back into a death trap. You can't go that far without caring at least a little.  
  
"Shit." he muttered. He cared. He cared a lot.

 

“Call the police,” she put her hand on his and gave him a hopeful smile. “They’ll know what to do.”

 

Clint nodded. He couldn't go to the police, not really. The chance of being recognized was slim but it was still a risk and getting arrested wouldn't help Bruce at all. He might be able to leave an anonymous tip or something over the phone or if he went back and got some pictures he could mail in the evidence. But by then it might be too late. He had to work out a plan and in the meantime he needed to blend in.  
  
"Do you know where I could get some real clothes?" he asked.

 

“You mean like at a clothing store?” Ophelia giggled. “I can point you in the right direction, there’s a goodwill place nearby where you can get a pair of jeans for two dollars. Why are you wearing tights anyway?”

 

"I don't have any money." Clint said, ignoring her question. Explaining what had happened would take too long and he needed to get moving. But money was going to be a problem. He'd left everything behind when he'd been taken. "Is there like a lost and found or something around here where I could maybe grab some clothes?"

 

“Well, sure, but isn’t that stealing?” she looked at him with growing concern. “Clint, are you in trouble? This situation is sounding more and more like one or more persons are in danger.”

 

"If it's something no one wants I don't think it can really be called stealing." he said with a half smile. He didn't want to answer her. If he told her any more she'd be in a lot of trouble. She might be in danger already if anyone found out he had talked to her. Those guys would find out he had escaped and would be after him sooner rather than later.

 

She looked skeptical as she began closing books. “Here’s my number,” she scribbled it down on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. “In case you need any more information for your friend. There’s a city lost and found in City Hall, you can probably grab a pair of jeans and a tee shirt from there. Be careful, okay?”

 

"Thanks Ophelia." he said earnestly. He took the paper and held it tight in his fist, having no pockets to tuck it into. "Please don't tell anyone you saw me. If they ask, lie. It's better that way."  
  
He didn't wait to hear what she said. He turned and left, slipping out of the library as inconspicuously as he could. He kept to the alleys and back streets, making sure no one could see him until he got to the City Hall. A few odd looks and misdirections later and he managed to dig a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt out of the lost and found. He would have preferred a hoodie or something he could use to cover his face but he wasn't going to complain.  
  
Once he was dressed he stole a few dollars for a bus back to the circus. If he waited until the show was underway he might be able to sneak in and talk to Bruce.

 

However, when he got there, the lights in the tent were off. It was the proper time for a show to be going on, but the whole area was clearly closed.

 

There was the sound of a cracking whip and strangled cries from inside the tent, but as Clint snuck through the front flap, the lights in the main ring were off. There was a light in the back, towards where Bruce’s cage was stored.

 

As he crept steadily closer, he began to hear the ringmaster’s voice.

 

“ – _beneath_ me! I will _not_ fear you, you are an animal and you can be tamed like one!”

 

Another crack, another cry. Clint’s blood ran cold, and he ascended the ropes into the loft so he could see unnoticed. One of the lion tamers was standing, whip in hand, near the cage. Two men stood on either side of her, with tranquilizer rifles aimed at the bars of Bruce’s cage.

 

“I… am not… an animal…” Bruce’s voice was weak and hoarse, and he was panting. Another crack of the whip between the bars of the cage, and another cry. “I am not an animal!”

 

Clint did a quick head count. There were the four near the cage and two security guards by back wall. Six in total. He could maybe take out three of them unarmed but with the tranquilizers and the security guards’ guns he didn't stand a chance.  
  
He slipped back out of the tent and made his way to where all the equipment had been stored. He wouldn't be able to get Bruce out without a weapon in his hands. Even rocks would do in a pinch. He didn't need to kill them, that would raise too much of a panic. He just needed to knock them out.

 

“You are an animal, and you will be beaten until you realize this,” the ringmaster hissed, and Clint flinched when there was another crack and another cry. “Those tighter shackles will keep you from turning, or kill you if you try, so don’t think the Monster can get you out of this one.”

 

“His name… is the Hulk…” Bruce snarled, spitting blood out onto the floor of his cage.

 

Clint grabbed the first props he could, some hard juggling balls, and raced back to the tent. Once again he ascended to the loft and took up his place. The first ball he threw knocked out one of the security guards. Then he took out the other. Following them he attacked the two holding tranquilizer guns before realizing he had not brought enough to take out everyone. The ringmaster and the lion tamer he would have to fight on his own.

 

It happened so quickly that they didn’t know what to do, and the ringmaster was flattened with a kick to his injured shoulder.

 

The lion tamer cracked her whip once, but she looked hesitant. “I don’t want to hurt you, kid,” she said with a grimace. “Just run, while you still can.”

 

“Clint, Clint, oh my God you’re alive,” Bruce’s heart fluttered at the sight of him. “I thought you were dead, I thought they killed you,” he was panting and bleeding from several nasty whip lashes, but he looked happy to see the younger man.

 

"Ha. I'm not that easy to kill. Besides, I promised to always come back." Clint said, wincing a little at how cheesy it sounded. It was the truth though and he was a little glad that Bruce was happy he was alright.  
  
Turning his attention to the lion tamer he snarled. "Take your best shot. There's nothing you can do to me that I haven't dealt with before."

 

The woman tried to steel herself, but Clint could see the hesitation in her eyes.

 

“Wait - !” she cried.

 

_BANG_

A sharp pain shot through Clint’s body and he forgot to breathe for a moment as a bullet imbedded in his back. The ringmaster was panting as he lowered his pistol, and watched the boy stumble and fall.

 

“I will not lose to you,” he snarled, pulling himself to a stand and stepping over the wheezing, bleeding boy. “You will not be the end of my business, boy.”

 

He stepped hard on the bleeding wound, and Clint gave a weak cry as he lifted the gun and pointed it at his head.

 

“ _NO!_ ” Bruce screeched, pulling desperately at his chains.

 

“Shut up.” The ringmaster pointed the gun and fired in one fluid motion, and Bruce was dizzy under the pain of the bullet in his chest as he went limp in his bonds.

 

Clint reached up, grabbing the ringmaster's leg, and pulled him down, tearing the man heavily to the ground, and he grabbed the gun. He scrambled for it, ignoring the searing pain in his abdomen. He tried to stand and his vision blurred, making him stumble. The ringmaster had missed his stomach and his heart but he had certainly hit something.  
  
He steadied himself and pointed the gun at the other man's head. His shoulder hurt and his back hurt and it was only a matter of time before he passed out but he had enough time to take care of this.  
  
"Bad move." he said and pulled the trigger.

 

The lion tamer had fled completely, leaving her whip behind and all. The tent fell completely silent, save for Clint’s unsteady panting, and the dripping of blood from Bruce’s chest to the floor of his cage.

 

Clint was weary as he turned to look at Bruce, suspended in a half-upright position by the chains. He was almost ready to mourn when he saw a familiar shade of green creeping up his legs.

 

But his shackles had been replaced, tightened so that they were fitted to his human form, and they looked solid. If he began to shift, they would likely cut into his body.

 

"Bruce!" Clint yelled, leaning against the bars. "Bruce, you gotta hold on for me. Try to hold it back for a little while Bruce, I'll help you. Just hang on please!"   
  
He bent down for a second and grabbed the ringmaster's cell phone. He shaky hands he dialed 911.  
  
"Just hold on Bruce, please just hold on." he said before the operator picked up.  
  
"911 what is the nature of your emergency?"  
  
"I've got a man badly wounded here. I've been shot and another man is dead. I'm out at Flavius Circus of Wonders and Oddities." then he hung up.  
  
His vision was going black as he turned back to the cage. He stretched his hand through the bars, reaching for Bruce. "Come on buddy, you have to stay with me okay. If you don't you're only going to hurt yourself more."

 

Bruce’s head snapped up, his eyes were glowing green and already he was beginning to shift. The metal was cutting into his neck, into his ankles and wrists, and he roared as his muscles expanded larger and larger. Just before it seemed like the shackles would kill him, they broke apart with loud snaps, metal shrapnel flying in all directions and nearly hitting Clint.

 

Free and enraged and frightened and wounded, the Hulk smashed the bars open of the cage just as backup security arrived. They opened fire immediately on the roaring beast, and Clint was amazed to see the bullets deflect off his chest.

 

Suddenly a strong arm wrapped around his waist and he was cradled uncharacteristically gently against the Hulk’s chest, and just like that he was sprinting towards security and throwing them aside one by one, tossing them around into walls and tent poles and flinging them into the air where they grabbed onto the high rise ropes for dear life.

 

And then they were out of the tent, both of the Hulk’s arms wrapped around him and he charged into the night.

 

"Glad you're alright." Clint said, slumping against the Hulk's broad chest. He was so warm and comfortable and Clint had never felt safer than he did in the Hulk's arms, despite the cold creeping through his body and the darkness around the edges of his vision.

 

The hulk carried him for several minutes, shifting him a couple times so that he was more comfortable before ducking into a place that looked safe – an abandoned factory. The ivy covered the doors, but he just kicked them in and looked around for a place that looked okay to put down a thing on.

 

His thought process was a little rocky, and eventually he realized there was no place to put him except for a rusty conveyor belt. Releasing Clint to lie on his back, the Hulk simply stared at him anxiously before saying in a very authoritative tone, “Clint.”

 

Clint's eyes were barely open but he managed a shaky smile. The metal was cold and rough on his back and he knew pressing an open wound against a rusty surface was a bad idea but he wasn't going to correct the Hulk. It probably didn't matter anyway. He had less than an hour before he was dead with no sign of getting any help. What did a little contamination matter in those sorts of circumstances?  
  
"You did good Hulk. You did very good." he said quietly, trying to stay awake a little longer.

 

“Clint.” The Hulk said again, and put his palm on the archer’s forehead. He was trying to comfort him, but had no idea what to do. Bruce was barely conscious inside him and offered no help whatsoever. He petted Clint’s hair, said his name over and over, patted his shoulder, rubbed his chest, patted his forehead, his movements were childish but with genuine emotion behind them. Clint thought he could see tears in his eyes, but it was too dark to tell.

 

Clint was losing consciousness quickly, tiredness and cold seeping into his body, and his eyes were closing to the sound of the Hulk shouting his name, trying to wake him up.


	4. Chapter 4

Clint didn’t expect he was ever going to open his eyes again. The last thing he remembered was being hollered at by the hulk on a scratchy conveyor belt, dying in a factory. But now he felt almost warm, nearly comfortable, and drugged to hell and back.

 

His first thought was of Bruce. Where he was, if he was still the Hulk, if he was safe, if he was hurt. He thought of how sad the Hulk had sounded as he shouted Clint’s name, how he must have been so afraid, as he watched the only person who was ever kind to him die slowly.

He was alive now, for reasons he didn’t quite understand. He was staring up at the same metal ceiling he’d closed his eyes to, so he hadn’t left. The conveyor belt had been draped in some sort of blankets, because it was feeling soft and warm, and there was definitely a cushion beneath his head.

 

He tried to look around, but his movements were sluggish, and every part of him felt heavy.

 

“Don’t try to move around just yet,” Bruce’s voice was soothing, and he came into view wearing a lab coat of all things, buttoned up because he still wore no shirt. “You just underwent a pretty severe surgery. How are you feeling?” He rest the back of his hand against Clint’s forehead, trying to discern if he had a fever.

 

"Tired." Clint admitted. He tried to sit up and yelped as pain coursed through him and he lay back down. "And everything hurts. What happened? How am I still alive? What are you wearing?"  
  
He was so confused and he was starting to feel light headed. As far as he could tell he should be dead. That was the logical conclusion to all of this. Maybe he was dead. Maybe this was hell, waking up in pain to see Bruce one last time, knowing he would never see him again or get to say good bye. That seemed like hell.

 

“One question at a time,” Bruce laughed and pulled an IV into view. Clint was suddenly aware of the needle in his arm. “What happened is I saved your life. I’m wearing an old coat I found in the closets here, I didn’t want to leave long enough to get clothing. Besides… people still make me nervous.” He ran his fingers through Clint’s hair to try to soothe him, and gave him a small smile. “I’m not happy, by the way. You killed the ringmaster, his whole business is going to fall apart, and I’ll have nowhere to go.”

 

"He whipped and shot you." Clint replied. He leaned into the touch, a little surprised by how good it felt. "And he tried to remove a few of my internal organs. He deserved to die in a much less merciful way. If I had more time I really would have given him a piece of my mind."

 

“I don’t have anywhere to go now,” Bruce scolded bitterly. “I can’t just go get a regular job now. Especially since people know what I look like, because they’ve been to the shows. I’m labeled unsafe by the government, there have been legitimate assassination attempts – ” he cut himself off with a sigh and massaged the bridge of his nose. “How many people did I hurt, Clint?”

 

"Five or six, I didn't really count. I was kind of bleeding out at the time." Clint said, taking Bruce's hand. He liked not have to stretch for it or work around the bars between them or worry about someone catching them. "And being rescued. He saved me Bruce. Without him I'd be dead."

 

“He didn’t save you; he nearly killed you by not bringing you to a hospital. But I give him credit for getting you out alive. I’m the one who saved you,” Bruce squeezed Clint’s hand gently. “One good thing did come out of the ordeal back at the tent – you have a brand new spleen, courtesy of the ringmaster.”

 

"Is that safe? Don't you have to match blood types and stuff?" Clint asked. He had heard about the body rejecting donated organs and stuff and it wasn't pretty. Bleeding to death might actually have been preferable to dying like that.

 

“It’s all I’ve got in a pinch. If it doesn’t match up, I’ll know within twelve hours, but it’ll take at least 72 to kill you. That’ll give me time to figure something out. So far so good, though, we might have gotten lucky. You don’t have a fever, do you feel nauseous? I managed to grab some food, if you think you can you should try to eat something.”

 

It was only then that Clint realized he was surrounded by medical equipment. The IV should have tipped him off, but there was also a heart monitor with four different lines bleeping softly up and down, and some other machine  he didn’t recognize that had what looked like an accordion attached.

 

He sat down on a stool and put his feet up on the bar, and it became clear that he was still wearing the tattered sweat pants and no shoes or socks.

 

"Where did you get all of this?" he asked in awe. "And how do you know how to use it?"

 

“I… wire tapped an ATM,” Bruce said sheepishly.

 

“That answers one of my questions.”

 

Bruce was quiet for a while, hesitant to reveal his past. But Clint was so open, so honest and impressed, I broke his heart to think about lying to him. He sighed, took a deep breath, and spoke in a timid voice, “I’m… Dr. Bruce Banner, M.D., Ph.D… Nice to meet you.”

 

"I knew you went to college." Clint said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Bruce wasn't just more educated than 97% of America. And he was an idiot with a third grade education who had only learned to read two years earlier. Technically he had faked his way through the fifth grade by copying other people because no one in the orphanage had really cared but that didn't change the fact that he knew next to nothing.

 

“Ten years, actually,” Bruce swallowed hard with a sigh. “I’ve never been more grateful for my skills as a doctor until now, though. I almost lost you. You’re… you’re all I have right now. I don’t mean to sound… needy. But you killed my employer, and now there’s very little I’m capable of doing. No one’s going to let me get a job as a doctor, it’s too high stress a job and they’d expect me to change at any moment. And I’ve been discredited in the scientific community ever since I – ” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, turning away abruptly to look at the heart monitor screen. “I can’t even end it, because the Other Guy always stops me.”

 

"Don't say things like that!" Clint said, sitting up to fast and crying out. His whole body protested the move and he could feel tears in the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away and kept himself propped up so he was closer to eye level with Bruce and gave him his meanest glare. "I never want to hear you say anything like that ever again. If one of us is gonna go that way it's gonna be me. I'm not losing you like that, you understand? If you wanna walk away fine but I'm not going to find you like that. It's not right for a good guy like you to think that way." he snarled angrily.

 

“I’m not a good man, Clint,” Bruce murmured sadly. “I was overconfident and cocky, privileged and appreciated, and I took advantage of it all, I took it for granted. Everything that has happened to me is my own fault, and I’ve only just started to repent for my actions.”

 

"That's better than most people. You're a better person than anyone I know. Except maybe Ophelia but she's one of those bright-eyed hopeful college students. She'll probably turn into a slutty bitch in a few years." Clint replied defiantly. "And good guy or not, I like you."

 

“Who’s Ophelia?” Bruce asked, still not turning back to face Clint, and a strange emotion settled in his chest. The rational part of his brain knew he couldn’t keep Clint all to himself. It was probably the Hulk causing him to feel jealous.

 

"Girl I met while I was looking up ways to help you out of your contract." Clint answered. "She gave me her number in case I needed more help. I don't really need now though." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled paper and handed it to Bruce. "Can you get rid of that? If something happened and someone found it on me she could get hurt."

 

He took the paper with a little flare of smug satisfaction, but quickly stamped it out as best he could and gave a nod. “I’ll burn it or something,” he muttered, slipping it into his coat pocket. “You know, you’re wanted by the police now. Where are you going to go?”

 

"I'll disappear. I know a guy who can get me overseas in a few days if I want. Or I could head south. Brazil's not a bad place to get lost in." Clint said, laying back down. He looked at Bruce, trying not to seem too hopeful. "You could come with me. No one will care about your history down there. We can find some tiny little village that's falling apart and you can get a job as a doctor and I'll work in a factory or something."

 

 Bruce tried not to smile, but it was evident by his expression that he was indeed trying not to smile. “Are you asking me to run away with you, Clint?”

 

Clint blushed and looked away. He hadn't really thought about it like that but he liked the idea. It would be nice, disappearing with someone like Bruce, living and working with each other. He hadn't had anyone to go home to in a long time and he liked the thought of Bruce filling that place in his life.   
  
"If you don't want to that's fine. It was just an idea. You'd get sick of me anyway. Forget I said anything."   
  
Bruce had better things to do anyway. He was a smart, kind, good-looking guy. He was probably already thinking of all the things he could do with his life that would be better than running away to South America with an ex-carnie mercenary.

 

Bruce laughed and ran his hand through Clint’s hair again. “I’ll probably get sick of you, but I think that friendships get better _after_ you’re sick of each other, because then you’re just not anymore. That seems to be how it works.”

 

"I'm an uneducated punk from Iowa. I won't be very good company. I can't talk about science or anything you might find interesting." Clint said before he could stop himself. "And I'm gay. I don't know how you feel about that but I'm probably going to bring random guys home sometimes and make a total idiot of myself and ogle you whenever I can. God why won't I shut up? What drugs did you give me?"

 

“…Advil.” Bruce quirked an eyebrow. “I’ve been locked in a cage for three years, the fact that you can speak _English_ is good enough company material.”

 

"The other stuff doesn't bother you? Because if not I have more." Clint teased.

 

“I’m sure we can list all of our shortcomings for each other once we hop a train across the border,” Bruce said, running his fingers through Clint’s hair for the hundredth time, it seemed. “For now, you need to sleep and I need to study your vitals to make sure your body isn’t going to reject that spleen. If it does… well, I’m probably going to have to fraud a practicing doctor and take one off of ice.”

 

"I don't want to sleep." Clint whined. "What if you decide I'm fine and take off for Brazil without me? And I'm not tired." A lie, of course. He was exhausted but he wasn't sure Bruce wouldn't run away now that he was free to go wherever he liked.

 

Bruce frowned, his brow furrowing so deep it looked like it might stick like that. “I’m not going to abandon you. You risked death to come break me out of my cage, and while I stress the fact that it was a stupid decision, I must concede that it was a brave one. Foolish. But brave. I’m not going to leave you after you’ve done that for me – besides, I sort of like you. I don’t think we’re just pretend friends anymore, kid.” He brushed his knuckles against Clint’s jaw tenderly. 

 

"I hope not. 'Cause I like you a lot." Clint said, eyes closing. He was still fighting sleep but it was clearly a losing battle. He was breathing deeper and his muscles were starting to relax. The last thing he did before falling asleep was take Bruce's hand again, holding it like a child might hold onto a security blanket.

 

Bruce allowed Clint to hold his hand until he was sure he was asleep. And maybe it was one small part selfishness that kept him holding onto Clint’s limp fingers for twenty minutes before he turned back to the monitors.

 

 

 

As luck would have it, the ringmaster was a compatible blood type. Bruce’s careful watch staved off infection, and Clint stitches held marvelously. It seemed as though fate was being kind to the two people who desperately needed it the most.

 

Bruce would check Clint’s vitals every day, twice a day. Check his stitches, count his pulse, take his temperature, keep him comfortable, add and remove blankets as Clint asked, and even swiped some scented candles to make the immediate area smell nicer. He fed Clint until he could sit up for extended periods of time and feed himself.

 

And all the time they made up stories about where they would live in Brazil.

Clint was convinced they’d have a mansion on a private beach, and Bruce said that they’d have at least sixteen cats.

Clint wanted a butler, and Clint said that was okay as long as they also had a hot tub and personal movie theatre.

Clint said he’d open an archery range and teach kids how to shoot for three dollars a child, and Bruce said he’d be a doctor to the people who really needed it, on a donation-only basis.

 

It was nice to imagine, because the reality would probably be so much worse.

 

Bruce told Clint one day he was allowed to walk around a little bit as long as he took it easy (and _no_ climbing, I _mean_ it) and said he’d be back in half an hour. He didn’t say where he was going, but as soon as he was back, Clint knew immediately.

 

He was wearing a dark purple dress shirt – rolled up to the elbows and unbuttoned just far enough that a few chest hairs peeked through – and black trousers that made his legs look so long. Sensible black dress shoes on his feet and a nice watch on his wrist, he clearly got a haircut, and shaved. He almost looked like a completely different man, but the stormy eyes and round nose and stress lines cut under his eyes and across his brow gave him away.

 

“I figured if we were going to be running off together I should wear something better than purple sweat pants and a second-hand lab coat.” He said sheepishly as he produced a bag. “Don’t know what you liked, so I went basic. Black tee, black hoodie, and jeans thatI _hope_ are your size, and some good quality boots.”

 

"Underwear?" Clint asked, grabbing the clothes. The shirt looked like it might be a little tight but the pants and hoodie looked comfortable. "I don't mind going without but I prefer them, especially with new stuff."  
  
He replaced everything in the bag and surreptitiously glanced over at Bruce. He had long ago realized that Bruce was attractive but damn did he look good like that. All clean cut and informally professional. He looked like the sort of laid back professor all his students loved and all the girls had crushes on.

 

“Yeah, there’s a pair of plain briefs, I didn’t know what you preferred so I just guessed.” He steepled his fingers for a moment before breaking them apart with a breath. “I’ll leave you to get dressed, I’m going to go… hack another ATM.” He gave a guilty sort of smile and ducked out of the room again.

 

Clint smiled and quickly stripped down. He preferred boxer briefs but anything would do in a pinch. He was just about to pull on the briefs, happy to finally have clean clothes again, when he realized how dirty he was himself.  
  
"Hey Bruce!" he called out, hoping the older man hadn't left yet.

 

“Yeah?” Bruce popped his head back in, an almost immediately spluttered and shielded his eyes. “ _Clint_ , for crying out loud, _warn me!_ ”

 

In the second that he saw Clint before he ducked away, he felt a surge of… he was sure it was jealousy. He was young and at his peak, with thick legs and hard abdominals and solid pectorals, and he was almost completely hairless. It made Bruce feel like an ape in comparison, and he thought about rolling his sleeves down to hide the thick hair on his arms. Bruce was just starting his thirties, made up of 50% scar tissue, 40% body hair, and 10% skin, with graying hair and a growing need for glasses. Clint was a radiant example of youth and manhood, and Bruce felt ashamed to be in his glow.

 

"I was just wondering if there was someplace around here I could clean up. I haven't had a real shower or bath or anything in ages. I hate putting on clean clothes like this." he said, wondering what had made Bruce turn and run like that. He wasn't bad looking, he knew that. He was tan, muscular, a little on the short side sure but usually other guys made fun of him for that.   
  
And it wasn't like this was the first time they had seen each other undressed. Bruce must have stripped him to perform surgery and for most of the time Clint had known him Bruce had been half naked so it wasn't like he was a prude.  
  
Maybe he'd just ducked out so Clint wouldn't see him laugh. He was all dignity and mature masculinity while Clint looked like a child who had barely hit puberty and worked out to compensate.

 

Bruce pressed his back to the wall right around the corner, feeling considerably warmer than he did a moment ago. “Yeah there’s a shower in the corner for maintenance. They used to use it if there was a mechanical malfunction and someone caught on fire. Just pull the chain with the handle, I already checked to see if it’s working. It’s going to be cold but it’s better than nothing.”

 

"Nothing wrong with a cold shower." Clint said. He dropped the clothes back into the bag and headed over to the corner.   
  
The water was indeed cold but he didn't mind. He hadn't had hot water in months anyway and it felt nice to just be under the spray, washing away the layer of grime that clung to his skin.

 

Bruce left the building quickly after that, a need for cool, fresh air pulling him a little quicker through the doors. He made a mental checklist of things he needed to do before they could go.

 

  * Get more money
  * Maybe buy some glasses, just for reading of course
  * Check Clint’s stitches again
  * Pack a suitcase with non perishable food
  * Wait. Buy a suitcase first
  * Look up the train they would need to take, how they would get aboard
  * Pack a basic first aid kit
  * Fake passports



 

He sighed again, running his hands down his face. First things first, one at a time. Time to hack another ATM.

 

Clint hopped out of the shower, a little chilly but happy to be clean and fresh again. He looked around for a towel but couldn't find anything other than his and Bruce's blankets and he didn't want to get those wet. He supposed he could get dressed wet but jeans were the worst on wet skin.  
  
He looked around and found a clean spot on the floor that was lit by the sun coming through one of the boarded up windows. He didn't know how long Bruce would be gone but he figured he had enough time to lie down and dry off.  
  
He took one of the smaller blankets he had used over his main blanket and laid it down on the floor. Then he settled down on top of it, closed his eyes, and promptly fell asleep.

 

Bruce came back thirty minutes later with a suitcase full of all the food he and Clint would need, glasses on his nose (he could see better than he had for years, maybe he would keep them on even when he wasn’t reading) and a few first aid kits he could disassemble into one larger one, and the highest quality fake passports.

 

Clint wasn’t in the room at first glance, so Bruce assumed he decided to take a walk, and lifted the suitcase onto the conveyor belt beside Clint’s blankets. He was then met with a sight that made his throat close right up.

 

Clint was lying asleep in a patch of sunlight. His skin was gleaming ever so slightly from the shower he’d taken, and every inch of him was clean. Bruce could see his goosebumps from where he stood almost four feet away, and he could see the way the blonde hairs on his belly and legs stood up and caught the sunlight.

 

Bruce felt guilty for not looking away, but Clint was practically a work of art, and maybe he deserved just a little bit of admiration. He had a birthmark on his hip right beside the dark patch of hair at the base of his penis, Bruce noted. It was sort of shaped like the Nike symbol, a gentle swoop that pointed directly towards his belly button.

 

Bruce’s mouth felt dry and jealousy spiraled through him as he inspected Clint’s abs, with valleys deep enough for an entire team of explorers to get lost in. His nipples were firm and erect on his chest, and he had a few scars on his form that shimmered in the light. His collarbone was deep and his knuckles were prominent, and Bruce wasn’t quite willing to look at his face just yet.

 

So he moved back down, stopping shamelessly at his penis. He was admiring him from a purely medical stand point, obviously, and noted that he was uncircumcised and if he understood erections (and he’s a doctor so dammit he does) then he’s probably close to seven inches fully erect, and why is Bruce thinking about Clint’s erections.

 

He took his glasses off abruptly and tucked them in his pocket to discourage further staring, and he unzipped the suitcase loudly.

 

Clint jumped, instinctively reaching for a weapon he didn't have. He settled down after a second, once his senses had returned to him. He turned, chest heaving, and looked up at Bruce with wide, shocked eyes.  
  
"You trying to scare the crap out of me?" he asked, climbing to his feet and walking over to the bag of clothes on the floor.

 

“Do try to have _some_ decency, please. I won’t be able to take it if you’re bare-ass naked every time I walk into a room. I’ve got a very weak constitution.” Bruce barely managed to keep from stammering.

 

Clint shrugged and tugged on his briefs. "I'm used to it. I've shared too many bedrooms with too many people to care anymore. But I'm sorry if my hot ass bothers you." He pulled on his pants and grabbed the shirt but didn't pull it on. Instead he went back over to his patch of sun and sat down. "You wanna check on my stitches before I put my shirt on? I know how paranoid you get and for all you know I did a hundred sit ups before taking my nap."

 

“You better not have,” Bruce said in a serious tone as he came to kneel behind the boy. He put the glasses back on and peered close, but the black thread appeared to be holding strong. “You’re healing up well. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. And you feel well?”

 

"Still sore sometimes but other than that I'm fine." Clint answered. He pulled his shirt on and turned to smile at Bruce. "I could use a haircut but I'm not going to lose sleep over it."

 

“I’m no good with scissors, I was abysmal with those little dotted lines in elementary school,” Bruce smiled weakly. “Otherwise I’d offer to cut it for you. Not sure you should go walking into a barber’s shop either, with your name on the most wanted list. The ringmaster’s death – and organ theft – have been pinned onto your list of charges. As far as the city knows, a psychotic organ-stealing murderer is on the loose.”  

 

Clint sighed. That was on top of the thugs already out looking for him. He had yet to tell Bruce how he had escaped or that he was still on the run from the men who had taken him away before. Honestly he didn't want to tell Bruce. The poor guy was freaking out enough already. If he found out Clint was being chased by some psychopath he wouldn't think twice before dropping this thing and leaving Clint to fend for himself.  
  
"To be fair, you were the one who did the harvesting, I just provided the body. And if we get caught I'm dragging you down with me." Clint laughed, trying to make light of the situation. "We'd both go to prison but hey, we'd still be living together."

 

“Me? In prison? How well do you think that would go?” Bruce wrinkled his nose as he helped Clint to his feet. “Let’s do some packing, we’re probably going to want to bring one blanket each, but we need to travel light. If the nights are too bitter cold then we’re just going to have to layer them on top of each other and sit close to share body heat. I’ve got plenty of food – all non-perishable, nothing that needs cooking, and all pull-tabs – and I’ve got a few first aid kits so I can keep an eye on your stitches.” He looked over at the medical station he had set up and sighed. “This equipment is so much better than anything we’ll be able to find in a tiny village in Brazil, but there’s no practical way to bring it with us.”

 

"I'll talk to someone about having it shipped down a little at a time once we're settled." Clint promised, trying not to think too much about what Bruce had said about sharing body heat. He was almost hoping for cold night so they would have to snuggle close. Not that it would really be snuggling. Not for Bruce anyway.

 

He could pretend.  
But he shouldn't.

 

Because that was a bad road to go down with a friend and he and Bruce had a good thing going. Doing anything to mess that up would be stupid and dangerous.  
  
"Other than the blankets what do we need? Neither of us has much in the way of clothes or personal stuff." he asked, already grabbing his favorite blanket off his makeshift bed.

 

“We can sneak back to the circus and check out how heavy security is. You might want to get your bow and arrows, since you’re so good at wielding them. Shows will be closed at this point until the new investor takes over, but the place could be crawling with police.” He paused after a moment and wrinkled his nose. “Ah, by we, I mean you. Stealth isn’t exactly my MO.”

 

"So you want me to literally return to the scene of the crime, to pick up weapons?" Clint laughed. He tossed the blanket at Bruce and crossed his arms. "Alright but if they catch me and ruin my pretty face I want you to remember that it's all your fault."

 

“If you think you can’t handle it we can duck into a weapons store somewhere between here and the trainyard, but what’s the chances that a modern weapons store will sell bow and arrows? Plus, I’m pretty sure you need a license or something.” Bruce sighed, picking apart the three medical kits to pack the essentials into one case.

 

"You can get them in hunting supply stores but they're crap. I have one of my old ones stashed away a few towns over but I don't think it'll be safe to make too many delays right now." Clint said. He leaned back against his bed and frowned. "I'll have to go towards the middle of the day, while security is lightest. I know about a hole on the fence around the back. I can get in there. There are a few rules you're going to need to follow though."

 

“I’m going to need to follow? What rules?” Bruce asked, already feeling like he was going to be taken out of his comfort zone.

 

"Like if I don't contact you within twenty minutes of going in, assume I'm dead and get out." Clint said blandly. "Simple as that. Or, if you see me coming but I'm being followed, signal then leave. I'll handle them on my own."

 

“So I do need to come with you?” Bruce made a face and forced a weak smile. “Alright… not totally comfortable with going back to a heavily populated area, but alright… how would you contact me?”

 

"Of course you're coming with me, you're going to be driving the get away car. I know where we can get one cheap. It won't be pretty but it'll run. And we'll use prepaid cell phones. You can get them at Walmart." Clint explained. "When we're done we'll throw them away."

 

Bruce blinked. “I haven’t driven a car since I was fourteen, Clint, and I’m not a huge fan of enclosed spaces. After spending the last three years in one, getting back in a tiny space isn’t on my list of top ten things I want to do.” He wrung his hands anxiously, staring at his shoes. “Okay, this was a dumb idea, I don’t know, we can just buy something, I’m liking this plan less and less.”

 

"It's not like I can just walk away from the circus carrying a bow with a quiver strapped to my back." Clint said, starting to get a little exasperated. "And like you said, we can't just walk into a shop and get them. If we want to buy them it'll have to be illegally and it could take a while."

 

Bruce took off his glasses and folded them into his pocket so he could rub his face. “Alright, alright, okay, we’ll get a cheap dumpy car, I’ll drive, we’ll be safe. We’ll be alright. We’ll get the phones, we won’t have any license plates, we’ll ditch it before we get to the train yard, burn the phones, and we’ll be alright.”

 

"You don't need to tell me." Clint said. He pushed himself off the bed and walked over to Bruce, taking hold of both his arms. "But I need you to promise that if something does go wrong you'll leave without me. I'm not going to be responsible for you getting hurt."

 

“I’m not making that promise,” Bruce shook his head. “You’re the only thing that matters to me right now, Clint. There is nothing but you. You’ve dragged me out of purgatory and… I’m frightened because I was used to it, but you’ve saved me, ultimately. I’m not going to let you get hurt because of me, either. You’re human; you’re a lot more fragile than I am.”

 

Clint felt like he was going to cry. He could feel tears forming in his eyes and he didn't want Bruce to see them so he pulled him into a hug. "You saved me too you know. Not just with the Hulk and the surgery and everything either." he whispered, squeezing him a little tighter.

 

Bruce nearly forgot how to breathe when Clint wrapped his arms around him. He was just tall enough that the tips of his hair brushed Bruce’s nose, and his chin was a strong point against his chest. His arms were solid, his body was broad and study and just as warm as Bruce expected someone as golden tan as Clint would be.

 

And past all of his stocky masculinity, Bruce could sense Clint’s fragility. He could feel it in the way he trembled; he could hear it in the way his voice shook. He lifted one hand and ran it over Clint’s hair because it always seemed to calm them both down.

 

“I know,” he murmured, his lips in the boy’s hair. “We’ve saved each other, and so now we’re all the other’s got. So no more asking one or the other to leave because of danger, deal?”

 

Clint nodded, his cheek rubbing against the material of Bruce's chest. He liked the way it felt and the feeling of Bruce against him. Probably more than he should have.  
  
So he backed off and forced a smile. "Yeah alright. But remember that if things go bad."

 

“If things go bad… well, things won’t go bad, so we don’t have to think about it. Besides, my plans never work. It’ll be better if it’s on the fly – some people might get tossed, but I think the Other Guy is actually more concerned with your safety than with smashing, unbelievably. So let’s get this car and get going, alright? We’ll leave everything here for now.”

 

Clint set out to an old junk yard where he grabbed a beat up but not quite dead old pick up truck while  Bruce stopped by a local convenience store for a pair of phones. From there they set off for the circus.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smut smut smut in this one! 
> 
> :D

It took Clint ten minutes to find the weapons stash and after shooting a quick message to Bruce he grabbed his favorite bow and a full quiver.  
  
Getting back out was more trouble. He ran into two security guards but managed to dispatch them, taking a few minor blows in return. From there it was easy going and he was back in the car in under 25 minutes.  
  
"You were right. Nothing to worry about." he laughed, tossing his stuff in the back seat and relaxing next to Bruce.

 

“Good, now let’s get out of here before I go into heart palpitations,” Bruce hissed, pulling out and driving away maybe just a little bit too fast. “Let’s go back, grab our stuff, load it in the truck, and then get to the rail station. Then I’ll go dump the truck somewhere and meet you back at two, and that’ll still give us half an hour before we have to be on our train.”

 

"Everything's packed and ready to go right?" Clint asked as they drove away. He knew one suitcase had been left empty for his bow and arrows because it was more compact and practical, but other than that he couldn't think of anything else they needed. But Bruce was the brains behind the whole operation so it was best to check with him.

 

“Yes, we’ll be out of here in no time at all,” he smiled fondly over at Clint, already thrumming with anxious, excited energy. They were going to leave together, and they were going to be secret and happy.

 

They grabbed their things and threw them in the back of the truck, and Bruce went over the plan one more time.

 

“They’re going to check the cargo train cars for stowaways one last time before they take off, and then the train’s going to start rolling. It’s going to take them almost ten minutes to get up to full speed, so we’ll have plenty time to run aboard. I’m sure you can shoot the lock off with one of your arrows; we need to get into car 144. That’s the car they’re transporting beans in, and it’ll keep us insulated if we can hunker down between a few stacks of burlap sacks.”

 

"You're getting good at this whole criminal thing." Clint said, climbing into the passenger seat. Bruce climbed in beside him and Clint grinned. "I'm pretty impressed. I didn't expect you to take to it so well."

 

“Don’t kid yourself; I’m being logical and practical, not criminal. If you hadn’t committed murder publicly in the first place we wouldn’t have this problem at all. I’m not some criminal, I am a doctor recently let out of my cage and I’m scared we’ll be caught so badly I’m almost not willing to go through with it.” Bruce frowned as they pulled away from the factory and headed towards the cargo railyard.

 

"If you're going to keep holding the whole murder thing over my head this isn't going to work," Clint said, sinking down in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“I have to go over the facts of the situation, otherwise I’ll go over the hypotheticals.” Bruce’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “And that’s even more terrifying.”

 

"I'm just saying, this isn't the first time I've killed people and it probably won't be the last." Clint replied, still pouting. "I don't need you making me feel guilty about it. Besides, we're safe. We've got a perfect plan and we're on our way. Nothing is going to stop us."

 

“Would you like me to compile a list of all the things that can stop us?” Bruce’s voice was anxious. “Because I can give you alphabetical, or order of severity.”

 

Clint sat up straight and looked at Bruce, his eyes hard. "Bruce. pull over. Now."  
  
Obviously confused Bruce did as he was told, looking at Clint questioningly. They came to a stop and Clint took Bruce's hands, forcing him to turn and look at him.  
  
"You need to understand something. Nothing is going to go wrong. And if it does I'll handle it. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. We're going to get on that train, we're going to cross the border, find a nice town to hide out in and be happy. That's the end of it. And if someone tries to stop us I'll protect you." he said, never once breaking eye contact.

 

Bruce’s chest felt tight as he looked at the boy’s severe eyes. He meant every word, down to the fiber of his being. He was going to protect Bruce. Bruce was safe with Clint. He smiled, rubbing his thumbs over the back of Clint’s hands.

 

“Alright. I… I trust you.” It was hard for Bruce to say. He was scared to trust someone. He was scared to love.

 

Clint smiled and gave Bruce's hands a quick squeeze. He really wanted to lean forward and give the man a kiss but he had a feeling if he did Bruce would bolt. So instead he let Bruce go and settled back into his seat.

 

"Good. Because if you didn't I'd have to question your sanity. Now let's get going. We don't want to be late."

 

Bruce dropped off the boy at the yard, and pulled away just as Clint set to work making a hole in the chain link fence big enough for him to slip the luggage through before he could climb over it. Pulling up to a swamp, Bruce opened the door and climbed out, taking a cinderblock from the back of the truck for just this occasion. He turned the engine over again, put it in drive, dropped the block on the ignition pedal, and jumped back just as the truck roared to life and drove itself into the depths of the swamp. Quite satisfied with himself, Bruce turned and jogged back to the yard. Clint was over the fence in the cover of the thick bushes when Bruce spotted him, and the archer pointed him towards the hole in the fence. Thankful that Clint had thought to bend the wires in such a way that they wouldn’t scratch him, Bruce crawled through the hole and emerged in the bushes beside Clint.

 

“Let’s find a better place to hide, farther down the line. This is only car one hundred and twenty, we need more time for the train to pick up speed a little bit, otherwise we’ll be caught.” Bruce said.

 

“That’s still like twenty cars back though, that’s not enough?” Clint asked, looking for any nearby railway workers.

 

“I’ve done the math for this. We need to get to car ninety-four and find a place to hide. Then when car one hundred and thirty-five is in front of us, you knock off the lock with an arrow, the momentum will slide the door open, and by the time car one hundred and forty is in front of us it will be going seven miles per hour and we will have just enough time to run up to the tracks and hop in through the open door.”

 

"You got a degree in physics too?" Clint teased but he stood and let Bruce lead him further down to the right car.

 

“Nuclear and gamma-nuclear physics, actually,” Bruce said as they slipped stealthily through the bushes.

 

Clint rolled his eyes. "How many degrees do you have man?"

 

“Are we counting bachelor’s and doctorates? Because – wait, get down.” Bruce hissed, and they both hit the ground just as a pair of feet came walking around the train. Bruce dared a peek through the foliage, and felt his blood run cold. “No, no, they’re not supposed to be checking to go yet, we’re supposed to have ten more minutes, we’re only at car one hundred, this is bad. We can’t just so sprinting – shit, okay, let’s pick it up, we have two minutes max. Keep down, don’t let anyone see you.” He whipped open the second suitcase and tossed the bow and quiver at Clint. “Get those on, we’re leaving the second case behind, let’s move!”

 

Clint slipped his quiver onto his back and held his bow in his hand, ready to shoot when Bruce gave the order.

 

Their boots crunched loudly as they darted through the bushes, but the train was beginning to whistle and groan loud enough that they couldn’t be heard. Bruce was desperately trying to redo the math as a backup plan if they didn’t make it to the car in time, but he was distracted and nervous and his heart was beating so fast he could feel it in his throat.

 

They reached the car just as the train started to move, and he was gasping for air. “Remember, shoot when car one hundred and thirty-five is in front of us,” Bruce gasped as he checked to make sure the zipper on the suitcase was secured tight.

 

Clint nodded and knocked his arrow. He took a few deep breathes, drawing the bowstring back to his cheek. He held steady, solid and unmoving as a rock. He counted as the cars went by, 120, 130, then, as 135 passed, he released the arrow.

 

“Perfect!” Clint’s heart fluttered with Bruce’s praise. “Now let’s go!”

 

Bruce stooped down and picked up the arrow as they darted forward towards the train, he was taking no chances. Clint tossed the suitcase into the open door and threw himself through the opening, but Bruce was having a little more trouble. Clint seized his trousers by the waist band and with a heave, he pulled Bruce up into the car with him.

 

“My upper body strength leaves a little bit to be desired,” Bruce admitted with a scared laugh. “Now quick, let’s close the door before it gets up to speed and we can’t.”

 

Together they managed to pull the door closed but it was clear they couldn't seal it. Eventually they gave up and hunkered down between some of the burlap sacks, as Bruce had suggested earlier.  
  
"I don't suppose you packed cards or something to pass the time, did you?"  Clint asked hopefully.

 

“Mh, no, sorry,” Bruce said with a weak smile as he peered at Clint in the dim light. He put his glasses back on so he could see more clearly as the two of them began to make a sort of fort with the sacks of beans. “I was more concerned with getting us out alive than I was with keeping us entertained.”

 

 Clint rolled his eyes but laughed and went back to his work. They spent the next hour in silence, building up their fort and then settling down for a light meal. It was getting dark outside when Clint started getting restless with boredom.  
  
"So how did all of this," he gestured to Bruce. "Happen anyway? Secret government experiment or something? Were you supposed to be Captain America on even more steroids?"

 

Bruce swallowed hard and looked away. “That… actually that was the basic idea, yeah,” he muttered. “And I got cocky, and I was so sure I had unlocked the answer and I didn’t think I could possibly be wrong because I was never wrong before. And… I used myself as a test subject. Worst mistake of my life.”

 

"Could have been worse. You could have died." Clint said, shuddering a little. He didn't want to think about Bruce dying, then or now. He had gotten used to having him around and without him he'd probably have ended up in a pretty bad place.

 

“It would have been better if I’d died,” Bruce shook his head. “Five other people are dead because of me and my stupid mistake, five good people that didn’t have to die – that shouldn’t have died. And I can’t even go into medicine and save people to soothe my own conscience, it’s too dangerous. I’m just… stuck with these five souls on my shoulder, these five people’s blood on my hands and… well, it gets hard to sleep at night sometimes.”

 

Clint wrapped an arm around Bruce's shoulders and pulled him closer. "I don't want you dead. I had nothing before I met you and now I have a best friend who saved my life. Without you I don't know where I would be now but it wouldn't be good. I'd probably be off kidnapping politicians kids or shooting whistle-blowers in the head for a few hundred bucks just to stay alive. And hey, once we get to Brazil you can practice medicine again. And you can help people who really need it. That should soothe your conscience a little."

 

Bruce felt safe in Clint’s embrace, and he couldn’t help but lean into it a little. “Thank you, Clint, I… mh. You really… you make me feel like I’m really worth something again.”

 

Clint rested his head against Bruce's. "You are worth something. You're worth a lot. You're a good guy Bruce. And you have the patience of a saint."

 

“I hope that’s true, if I’m going to be putting up with you for the next… forever.” Bruce said, shoving Clint light-heartedly.

 

And just like that they went back into discussing what their lives would be like in Brazil. Both of them were surprised and pleased to find out that the other already spoke Portuguese – which certainly made things easier. Clint learned for work just like Bruce, even though their lines of work were so vastly far apart.

 

They were sure they’d get a little shack of a house with tin walls and dirt floors, and they were pretty okay with that. They’d probably have two rooms – one bedroom for the both of them with two mattresses, and one main room. There would be a community bathroom of some kind, and they were both okay with that too.

 

“We’re getting off the train the town before it stops to deliver its cargo, in a favela called Rocinha,” Bruce explained as it began to get dark. “We’re going to be on this train for four days, so we’ll have plenty of time to chat about anything we want.”

 

"I did tell you that you could ask me anything you wanted." Clint said, relaxing a little. He was comfortable here, with things well underway. And while being trapped for four days didn't really appeal to him he was going to be spending those four days with Bruce, who he thought he might actually be starting to trust.

 

They decided to play a game, asking each other little questions back and forth to learn just little bits more about one another.

 

Like how Bruce’s favorite color is actually green.

And how Clint is ambidextrous.

And Bruce knows how to speak four languages.   
And Clint can sing like a goddamn angel.

 

Somehow, the little facts that nobody cared about seemed so significant to the two of them. Bruce was so happy to find out that Clint’s favorite subject while he was still in school had been science – even if it was because of the teacher.

And somehow, Clint was nearly brought to tears when Bruce admitted he’d never even held a gun, let alone fired one. He was such a pure man, it almost burned Clint to be with him.

 

The night wore on, and the door – propped shut with a pile of bean-filled sacks – was rattling and letting in frigid air. They wrapped themselves each in the blankets Bruce brought, but even still they were pretty cold, sitting directly next to each other.

It wasn’t until their noses started to run that they finally doubled the blankets up and sat in close to one another, pulling sacks of beans down to cover their feet and walling them up to try to block out some of the wind.

 

“Okay, first kiss?” Clint asked as they huddled in close to one another, after they’d layered a few bags beneath them to keep their bodies from the cold floor.

 

Bruce laughed. “Her name was Evangeline. Fifth grade. She was Russian and she came from a really poor family, so she was made fun of a lot. One day at lunch she was being picked on by some of the popular _pretty_ girls and I came to her rescue. She kissed me on the lips and called me _moy malenʹkiy prints_ for the rest of the year, and never told me what it meant when I asked her. It wasn’t until after her family had to move back to Russia that I found out she’d been calling me ‘my little prince.’”

 

"That's adorable." Clint laughed. "I guess now it would be more like beauty and the beast right? The prince who's secretly a really good guy but no one knows?"

 

Bruce laughed, “The prince was actually selfish and self-centered, if you remember the tale. Besides, I highly doubt she even remembers me. We didn’t date or anything, she just kissed me, called me her prince, and then left after four months.” 

 

"Then I'll be beauty. And in the old story the prince wasn't self centered anymore. Beauty was just a snob." Clint countered, looking smug. "Which I think sound about right. I'm a hot jerk."

 

Bruce snorted. “I don’t think I have the makings of being a prince anymore. Maybe when I was in fifth grade and feeling brave, and I was young and stupid and was more into girls than my physical safety. But now, I’m… I’m just a dangerous, emotionally substandard mess.” He nudged Clint in the ribs with his elbow gently. “Besides, I don’t think I want to see you in a big yellow ball gown.”

 

"You're right. I look much better in a cocktail dress." Clint smirked. He could see Bruce blushing and it was just too cute. "I mean could you imagine me in heels? I did it once, for a job, and my ass looked spectacular. And no, you can not ask about the job. I'm not saying anything."

 

“Am I allowed to ask how your ass looked?” Bruce snorted, and he couldn’t quite tell if he regretted it. He’d meant it to sound like a joke, but now he was afraid that Clint would think he was coming on to him.

 

Clint grinned. "It looked perfect. Round and firm and at just the right height for grabbing. And there was plenty of that, from guys and girls. And the mini-skirt only made it look better. You probably would have fainted if you'd seen it."

 

“Mh. Yeah. Weak constitution.” Bruce looked away, trying not to imagine the color of the mini skirt, or how it was probably skin tight and at that length that his ass would actually be holding it from riding up.

 

"You're thinking about it though, aren't you. Trying to guess what I was wearing on top, or maybe under the skirt." Clint continued. Bruce's face just kept getting redder and redder and he just couldn't stop. It was too much fun, watching someone who was usually so in control getting so flustered.

 

“No, actually, I wasn’t,” Bruce lied, trying to sound as scolding as possible. “You are insufferable.”

 

He turned a little bit so that his shoulder faced the boy, trying to keep his face out of the shaft of light trickling in through the crack in the door. He didn’t want Clint seeing how flushed he’d become at the thought of Clint’s bare legs, taut in high heels and bulging beneath a skirt that was definitely too short – and when did Bruce ever gain an interest in cross-dressing, dammit?

 

"Sure you aren't. You're just jealous because you could never rock a pair of heels or a tube top like I could." Clint laughed, feeling smug.

 

“You’re definitely right about that,” Bruce muttered, feeling nauseous just thinking about wearing women’s clothing. “The thought of being exposed like that is just… unnerving.”

 

"Wouldn't suit you." Clint said with a shake of his head. "You're too masculine with all that sexy chest and arm hair. No one would take you seriously."

 

Bruce snorted so fast he choked on it, and he coughed for almost a full thirty seconds before his coughs turned into laughter.

 

“I’m sorry – I’m sorry – ” he gasped, red-faced. “I’m sorry, please, don’t ever use that word to describe me, oh God. Sexy is not a word that _anyone_ should use to describe me, let alone you.”

 

"Let alone me?"  Clint asked, clearly caught off guard. That was not the reaction he had been expecting. "What's that supposed to mean?"

 

“I mean…” Bruce made a face and shifted just a little bit farther away from Clint. “I mean you’re young, and you’re put-together. You’re all tan and you’ve got muscles on your muscles and you could be a Calvin Klein model if you wanted. If there’s anyone who deserves to be described as _sexy_ it’s young people like you. I’m just… adult. And hairy.”

 

Clint stared at him, blinking slowly, trying to process what Bruce had just said. Then he laughed.  
  
"That's what you think? Seriously? All this time I thought you saw me as some immature kid! I mean jeez, I'm hardly model worthy. I'm short and have as much hair on my chest as a twelve year old. And you..." he whistled. "You're all dignified and mature and you've got all this great, manly hair. It's _hot."_

Bruce covered his face with both his hands. “Please, stop, this is embarrassing. I’m not – I’m not an attractive man, no one in the science career is, we’re not known for our studs. I just spent the last three years of my life half-naked, emaciated, and in a _cage_ , I’ve got more scar tissue than skin; that’s hardly dignified… I just don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

 

"I like your scars." Clint said, touching his fingers to one on Bruce's forearm. He felt the man tense and goosebumps forming beneath his fingertips. They obviously weren't from the cold because they hadn't been there until he touched him. Which meant Bruce was reacting to his touch.  
  
Which gave Clint an idea.  
  
He leaned in a little closer, so his lips were only inches from Bruce's ear. "I love a guy with scars. I find it very.... _stimulating_."

 

“Stim- Stimulating?” Bruce stammered, and the goosebumps spread up his arm and down his neck like wildfire. “Honestly, Clint, get ahold of yourself. There’s nothing stimulating about scars, they’re symbols of past pain and aggression and violence, and all things that are not se- sexually arousing.”

 

His body was reacting against his will. Four years since he’d been intimate, and having _anyone’s_ lips that close to his neck would have given him goosebumps, let alone a boy whom he trusts explicitly and happens to have a physical structure worth the highest form of praise.

 

"See that's where you're wrong."  Clint whispered. He was starting to get a little hot too and god did it feel good. He hadn't been with anyone in nearly a year and it had been starting to drive him crazy. "They make you look wild and rugged and it's so fucking gorgeous Bruce."

 

Clint’s words were tearing holes in him all along his spine, and Bruce shook his head. “No, Clint, just stop, I’m _not_ rugged, okay? I might be able to concede wild, okay, but just – nh, no just stop,” his body was buzzing already with restless energy, and it was tingling in all his pores and making every one of his fingers feel the need to wrap around something – anything.

 

"Are you sure? Because I'm not sure you understand me yet." Clint whispered, taking his hand away to see what Bruce would do. "You're so hot Bruce. Your scars are gorgeous and your hair...god it looks so soft. I never want to stop touching you. I think about it all the time. I think about how good it would feel to be able to run my hands over your chest and feel that soft, manly hair. Would you like that Bruce?"

 

Bruce tried to protest again, but it got caught in his throat as a whine. His clothes were suddenly feeling scratchy and too tight, and he was getting too warm. “Clint, no,” he murmured, turning his body away almost completely. He was breathing a little bit harder, and his grip on his senses was spinning out of control. He couldn’t help but imagine Clint running his hands over his chest, and goosebumps sprang up in the imaginary trail his fingers took.

 

"But that's nothing to what I think about when I look at your lips. God, Bruce you have no idea. They're perfect. Full and a little pouty sometimes and I want to know what they feel like. I almost kissed you in the car before, did you know that? I wanted to but I thought it might scare you off. And I've thought about it before. I've lain away imagining kissing you before. And not just kissing,"  Clint purred. The back of Bruce's neck was red and he could tell he was barely holding himself together.

 

“Clint…” Bruce’s voice was thick. He was protesting, really, on principle. He hadn’t become intimate during the affliction – he could turn and hurt Clint. Not to mention, they had a good friendship going, and intimacy could potentially ruin it. And another thing, Bruce was terrified to be sexual with a man. It intimidated him greatly – sex in general did, as a matter of fact. But the thought of such a young, strong boy flirting with him in such an open, honest way made Bruce feel weak with anxiousness.

 

"Bruce," Clint answered, his voice low and husky. Feeling daring he rested his hand on Bruce's hip, his fingers slowly pulling up the hem of his shirt. "You have no idea Bruce. I've wanted you for a long time now. You have no idea how hot I felt the first time you saw me naked and every time after. I wanted you to look at me and to want me. I thought about it while I was in the shower. I imagined your eyes on me while you told what to do and where to touch."

 

Bruce’s mouth was officially dry and he was doing math in his head to try to distract from the feeling of Clint slowly untucking his shirt – but he didn’t stop him. This was a bluff, it had to be, Clint wasn’t _this_ reckless. But when the first finger brushed his bare side, Bruce jumped and turned to face Clint so fast he almost got whiplash.

 

“Clint, you’re being impulsive, you’re going to regret this, I suggest you stop at once – ” and he almost would have sounded serious, if his voice hadn’t trembled and cracked at the very end.

 

"Impulsive? Sure." Clint said. He leaned forward and nuzzled Bruce's neck. "But I'm not going to regret this unless you really don't want me. And even then at least I took a chance instead of spending the rest of my life pining after you and pretending you’re the one touching me at night."

 

Bruce shuddered at the feeling of Clint’s cold nose and hot breath brushing over his neck. He wondered what it would be like to touch Clint, what noises he would back, if his back would arch, if he would whisper Bruce’s name.

 

“Clint, come on, this isn’t – nh. You’re just desperate, you’re young and horny and that’s normal but don’t take it out on me, Clint, I don’t want you to use me.”

 

Clint drew away a little, but stopped himself. He was hurt, sure, but he wasn't going to let Bruce get away that easy. "You think I'm that much of an asshole Bruce? Or that desperate? I could have a lot of guys Bruce. I have plenty of options and I know how to make a man want me. But I want you, Bruce. You're the one I'm running away with and you're the one I want to hear scream my name when I make you come."

 

“Clint, please, I – ” Bruce was panting now, and a familiar heaviness was settling into his lap, spreading warmth throughout his body. “I don’t know if I can control myself.”

 

It was… nice, sort of. To hear that Clint actually wanted him – but how could that last, really? He was a kid, and kids were famous for going through flings. He didn’t want to care about Clint even more deeply than he already did, just to lose him again.

 

"Just relax. Nothing bad is going to happen. Even if you turn he won't hurt me." Clint said. He pulled Bruce closer to him and pushed his shirt up a little more, giving his hands access to Bruce's warm stomach. "And we'll go slow if you want. We have years ahead of us to learn about each other. We have all the time in the world to find and push our limits. And it won't get boring because mine are still changing. It'll be a long time before things start getting routine."

 

Bruce felt another heat wave rock his whole body. Years, Clint had said years. Clint wanted _years_. They’d already said they were going to spend years together, but somehow a feeling of permanency was washing over him, and he felt warmer than before, warmed from the inside out.

 

He shifted so his shoulder was facing Clint again, turning his face away hopefully before the archer could see his stupid smile.

 

“Clint,” he murmured, but said nothing else.

It still felt rather sudden, and he was still scared, but maybe the best things in life didn't need a whole lot of thought. His brain was trying to rationalize, but his body was already trying to imagine what Clint's lips would look like wrapped around his cock.

 

"I want you Bruce." Clint whispered. He gave Bruce another little tug, so they were pressed chest to chest. He could feel how aroused Bruce was and he smirked at the way Bruce gasped when he pressed his own erection into the other man's thigh.

 

“Oh God, Clint,” Bruce’s voice was choked as he felt a throb shoot through the younger man’s cock. Hearing Clint say over and over again how much he wanted him made him feel like maybe he was a little bit attractive – or at least Clint thought so, and honestly, Clint’s opinion was the only one that mattered.

 

Clint grinned and slipped on hand out of the other man's shirt to land on his thigh. He slid his hand up until it met the junction of leg and hip, the edge of his forefinger just barely brushing against the line of Bruce's cock, and squeezed.

 

And then two things happened at once.

Bruce’s eyes flashed bright green.

And his head fell back with a loud, unrestrained moan.

 

Clint’s hand on his leg was quite possibly the best thing Bruce had ever felt.

He hadn’t been intimate with very many people – his list stopped at three – but nobody had ever had his hair standing on end and his cock pulsing with blood before they even laid a hand on him.

 

That sound was amongst the most beautiful things Clint had ever heard. It was low and wanton and absolutely perfect. In one second it took him from "aroused" to "achingly hard". It was all he could do to keep from throwing Bruce down and ripping his clothes off. Instead he yanked the man closer by the front of his shirt and crashed their lips together in an almost violently possessive kiss.

 

Bruce thought he could taste blood as Clint moved farther over his lap, and suddenly they weren’t on a train, they were in a place where nothing cold or dangerous or frightening could touch them. Clint’s tongue was working across his lips already and Bruce’s hands hesitantly came to rest on the boy’s hips, and he decided that this probably wasn’t a bad thing after all.

 

His voice was well out of his own control as Clint worked his lips over Bruce’s, and it was all he could do to moan between gasps for air and desperately try to keep up. Clint’s body fit against his like they were made for one another, and he spread his legs to give the boy more room. The blankets had fallen to their waists, but they were so hot already that suddenly the cold wind was a godsend, keeping them both from combusting.

 

Clint moaned against Bruce's mouth, his fingers making quick work of the man's buttons. He nearly ripped off the last one in his haste to get the other man's shirt open but finally there it was, all skin and hair with no fabric barrier between them. As he had promised he spread his hands over the warm, furred flesh. He could still count Bruce's ribs as his hands glided over them but that meant very little when Bruce shuddered under his touch or jumped when his fingers brushed his nipple.

 

Bruce turned his head to try to hide his expression, and he could feel his cock leaking in his trousers. He was flushed with shame, his whole body burning and jerking up against Clint’s touch.

 

“Clint – nh,” he moaned, tilting his head back and nearly breaking to pieces when he felt Clint’s lips rove the expanse of his throat.

 

"You're so fucking _hot_ Bruce."  Clint whispered against Bruce's neck. He set to work leaving a dark hickey where it would show just above Bruce's collar before the other man could answer. He didn't want to fight about it or have to explain what he meant. Bruce was gorgeous and everything he did was turning Clint on more and that was it.  
  
While his mouth worked on Bruce's neck, from flicking his tongue across the hollow above his collar bone up to nipping at his ear lobes, his hands roved the expanse of the other man's torso. He teased his nipples and stroked his ribs down to his stomach, only to trace the lines of his hip bones before being stopped by the hem of his pants.  
  
"Stupid things." he growled, pulling open the button then tugging down the zipper in one harsh move.

 

The rush of cool air down Bruce’s trousers made him yelp and his hips jerked upwards, and Clint was knocked dizzy by the sudden swirl of Bruce’s masculine, clean, sharp scent being picked up by the wind and thrown at him.

 

“Clint,” Bruce moaned, his head tipping back just a little farther into the shaft of light, and Clint’s heart was racing because he could see just a little green creeping at the edges of Bruce’s face.

 

"Fuck Bruce,"  Clint said gently, stroking Bruce's cheek. "You're so fucking gorgeous like this. God Bruce, you're so fucking perfect, you know? I love it, man."  
  
He kept whispering softly until the little bit of green had started to recede. Going more slowly this time he pushed Bruce's briefs out of the way enough for him to sneak a hand in and wrap his fingers around the man's cock.

 

“ _Oh God!_ ” Bruce shouted, and the green was already creeping back; it frosted his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, but it didn’t move. His hips bucked up immediately, seeking friction, seeking pressure. He gripped Clint’s wrist as he ground up into his hand, panting hard now and seeing white already.

 

Pre-come was already leaking down Bruce's shaft, slicking Clint's fingers and providing the perfect lubrication for him to drag his hand from base to tip, making Bruce cry out beneath him.

 

“Clint, Clint, Clint, please,” Bruce begged with no real request in mind. He could feel the calluses of the archer’s fingers scratching him, and he’d never felt more spread open or been more aware of his own heartbeat. His hips were rolling up into the boy’s hand, and he was babbling now, a constant stream of absolutely nothing, with Clint’s name thrown in every so often, as well as non-descript requests for more, or faster, or _oh god squeeze harder Clint please_.

 

Clint set up a steady rhythm, one that he knew would drive Bruce absolutely crazy. He loved watching the man fall apart and knowing that it was his hands and his words and his lips that were causing it.   
  
"You're about to lose it, aren't you? It just feels so good." Clint asked, letting go and watching Bruce buck up in desperation. "You know what feels even better?"  
  
He didn't wait for an answer. He just smirked and slid back so there was enough room for him to lay between Bruce's legs and take him into his mouth.

 

Bruce was reeling inside from the corniness and almost cheap-pornographic quality of Clint’s words, but his body reacted so strongly that it hardly mattered.

 

“Clint, yes, yes, oh god yes, please, yes,” Bruce chanted, his feet tapping weakly at the bags beneath their bodies, his hands threading through the boy’s sandy, short hair and tugging weakly. Clint looked up and watched the green creep just a few millimeters farther across his face, and it had his whole body pulled taut as a bowstring with adrenaline and lust.

 

Clint gave a little hum of satisfaction around the cock filling his mouth that made Bruce thrust up, driving himself farther down Clint's throat. He didn't mind though. He'd learned to control his gag reflex while learning to swallow swords in the circus, a skill that had made him very popular among certain circles.  
  
And god, did he love how Bruce tasted. Usually the feeling of semen on his tongue and the bitter taste made him feel a little gross but Bruce wasn't so bad. It wasn't as overwhelming as some guys, probably because of his highly controlled diet. Or maybe it was just the Clint was enjoying himself to the point where it was actually good for him as well. Certainly those hands in his hair and those beautiful little noises Bruce was making were driving him nuts.

 

“Clint, I can’t, I can’t, oh God, Clint, stop,” Bruce’s toes were curling in his shoes and he was thrusting up into the archer’s mouth with abandon. The green dusting had spread slowly to his nose, and Clint thought he could see just the barest hints of it across Bruce’s exposed collar bone. Somehow the thought of Bruce slowly losing his composure to such a vast degree had Clint’s head spinning with lust.

 

He was so hard it hurt, especially trapped between his body and the floor. But there was no way to take care of himself now. All he could do was press down hard, using the pressure to stave off the worst of the ache while focusing as much of his attention as he could on driving Bruce nuts.

 

Once he realized that Clint had no intention of pulling away – that he was going to _swallow_ – Bruce lost it in that instant. He screamed something that almost sounded like Clint’s name, holding his head steady with a tight grip in his hair while he fucked the boy’s throat raw through his climax, sobbing his completion.

 

Clint swallowed as much as he could, before gently cleaning Bruce's softening cock and licking the few remnants left from his lips. The look on Bruce's face when he had climaxed would be burned into his psyche for the rest of his life, he was sure of it. It had been so hot, and mixed with the tinge of green that showed just how much control he was losing only made it better.  
  
Smug smirk firmly in place Clint pushed himself up and crawled onto Bruce's lap.  
  
"Job's only half done."  he teased, taking the other man's hand and pressing it against the bulge in his jeans.

 

Bruce didn’t even hesitate for one moment, popping open the button on the boy’s jeans and pulling him out into the cool air. He loved the way that Clint hissed and jerked against his touch, the way his forehead rest against Bruce’s, the way his breathing hitched.

 

There was something intrinsic about the action of sliding his hand along the length of Clint’s penis. He knew this territory, he’d mapped it on his own body, and he knew just how hard to pull and just how tight to squeeze.

 

He kissed the boy soft and gentle as he pulled at his cock, drawing droplets of pre-come out of his slit and onto Bruce’s belly with every slow pull of his hand, and he was memorizing the shape and heaviness of it against his fingers and his palm. He wasn’t disgusted by the bitter salt taste of his own finish lingering on Clint’s lips, and continued to kiss him lazily as he pulled faster at his cock.

 

"Fuck, Bruce..." Clint whispered against the other man's lips. He rocked his hips, trying to speed Bruce along. Slow and lazy was fine for someone who'd already had an orgasm but for him it was taking far too long. He wanted fast and sloppy, something that would get him off _now_ and all that other stuff could be saved for later.

 

Bruce jerked his hand faster, kissed Clint a little deeper, and made sure to grind his thumb against the boy’s frenulum with every strong stroke of his hand. Clint was rocking against him harder, and he loved the needy whines that slipped from between his lips, and he swallowed each one of them up.

 

Running his tongue over Clint’s bottom lip, his other hand boldly reached behind him and took a handful of his ass, giving it a firm squeeze. He was alarmed by its softness – he would have expected it to be a little more hard muscle and a little less squishable – but it didn’t deter him in the least from helping Clint’s hips surge forward with guiding tugs to his rear end.

 

Clint moaned against Bruce's mouth, eagerly encouraging him to continue. The firm, possessive hand on his ass was perfect. He wanted more. Nothing would be better than a few bruises shaped like that large, strong hand to serve as a reminder for the next couple days.

 

“Come, Clint, come,” Bruce murmured as he kissed the boy’s ear, pulling their chests together and leaving only enough space for his hand to continue with its quick pulls.

 

He’d never quite felt like this before. The feeling of holding power over Clint, the realization that the boy’s climax, his pleasure, rested solely in Bruce’s hands, was electrifying. He was responsible for these moans, for this ecstasy, and he could just as easily take it away and make Clint beg. He was the boy’s God in this moment, and the feeling was _thrilling_.

 

"Oh fuck, Bruce.." Clint groaned, throwing his head back. He gripped Bruce's shoulders and thrust into his hand, his hips working furiously. Rhythm meant nothing anymore, he just needed his release. He was close and hearing Bruce's dirty talk made his head spin a little. He loved the way he sounded like this, low and husky with an edge of authority. And commanding him to come? So fucking hot.  
  
It only took a few more short bursts of motion to send him racing head-long into his orgasm. And even then, as he twitched and his body went taught and he spilled over Bruce's stomach, the hand working his cock never faltered and the grip on his ass only tightened.   
  
He rode out the after shocks before falling bonelessly onto Bruce's chest. A warm, contented lethargy settled over him and he wrapped his arms around the other man's neck, holding him loosely.  
  
"That was fucking awesome." he laughed quietly.

 

Bruce grinned, twisting his arms about the boy’s waist and pulling them tighter together. “You better rub some dirt on your shirt, because you just laid on top of your own semen,” he teased, and held him tighter when Clint whined and tried to wriggle away.

 

"You're an ass." Clint sighed. Then he smiled and kissed the side of Bruce's neck. He was usually one for cuddling but this was kind of nice. "But that's okay. I kind of like it."

 

“Speaking of, marshmallow-butt.” Bruce couldn’t stop grinning, and he even liked the fact that his cheeks hurt. It meant that his face was thawing.

 

Clint pouted. "I know. Everything else got hard and muscular when I started in the circus. But my ass stayed round and mushy. Looks good in my costume though."

 

Bruce pulled the blankets up over Clint’s back again, and settled down on the bag of beans behind him so that they were almost horizontal, Clint still full-on straddling him. They both felt warm and lethargic and perfect.

 

“Hey, Clint,” Bruce murmured after a long, very comfortable silence. “I want this to happen a lot. I think… I think I want to be yours. If-if you’ll have me.”

 

Clint stiffened against him, feeling a little panicky. That wasn't how these things were supposed to go. That sounded really serious and a lot like a commitment. Commitments or anything resembling a promise never really worked out for him.  
  
But this was Bruce. Bruce wasn't like any of the others. Bruce was nicer than his brother or his mentors or the few sort-of boyfriends he'd had. Bruce had his own fears and trust issues. And Bruce still wanted him. So maybe it would be okay.   
  
"I'd like that." he muttered, relaxing again though his heart was still racing.

 

Bruce could feel Clint’s heart racing, but decided against mentioning it. If Clint wanted out eventually… well they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Bruce could only help it didn’t ever come to that.

 

Sleep came quickly and easily for the two of them.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, the two were awoken by the sound of a loud whistling, and the train slowing into a railyard to pick up gas and trade off conductors. The two stretched and groaned and Clint made a face as he inspected the off-color stain on his shirt. The rest had dried on Bruce’s belly, and he was able to flake the majority of it off before re-buttoning his shirt.

 

“What do you say we try to open the door for a little, once we’re sure it’s safe? This particular railyard is walled off, so they don’t check the cars this time because they’re sure no one can get in.” Bruce suggested, standing up to stretch his legs and crack his neck.

 

"Sounds good." Clint said. He stood and pulled of the soiled shirt, tossing it aside before running through a couple of his pre-performance stretches. Sleeping on top of Bruce had been nice but it had left him stiff and uncomfortable. "We could use the air. It already smells like sex in here."

 

Bruce laughed and waited until the train had arrived at a complete stop before he moved the bags they’d stacked in front of the door and slid it open a couple feet. He promptly sat and dangled one leg over the edge of the train, letting the breeze blow into the train and carry the scent of their previous coupling out into the clean morning air.

 

“Doesn’t that feel nice,” Bruce took off his glasses so he could run his hands over his face and wake himself up a little more.

 

Clint joined him by the door, a blanket draped over his slim shoulders to stave off the wind chill. He smiled and lifted his face to the sun, breathing deep.  
  
"It's great. And just think how much better it will be when we're off the train and can enjoy it like real people." he laughed.

 

They talked for a few minutes, Bruce going over the times they would have to hide when they threw the door open to check for stowaways, and how they would need to build some kind of fort to hide in, because they would check rather thoroughly with the lock gone.

 

And just as the train was whistling to take off, a little motion caught the corner of Bruce’s eye. He turned his head just in time to see two small children with dirty backpacks and dark skin shuffling through a tiny crack in the wall. One girl and one boy, clearly siblings, she was around twelve years old and he was probably closer to four.

 

“Oh no, it’s leaving!” he heard the girl shriek.

 

Without hesitation, Bruce jumped down from the train and beckoned them over, just as the locomotive started to inch forward. “Come on, kids, you can make it!”

 

He didn’t know why they were running away, or if it was even a good idea – if their parents were looking for them or if they were being impulsive children – but he knew the look of desperation in their faces was real. They were running from something horrifying, and he’d seen that same look in Clint’s eyes, he’d felt that same expression in his own body. He knew he had to help these children.

 

They hurried forward, backpacks bouncing on their tiny forms and Bruce lifted the boy, handing him to Clint, who quickly tucked him away into the safety of the train car. Following suit with the girl, he lifted her beneath the armpits and Clint seized her by the waist, and they were both inside. The train was moving more quickly now, and Bruce had to jog and take a less than dignified leap before Clint could take ahold of him and pull him back up as well. They threw the door shut before the train started moving too quickly, braced it shut with bags of beans, and everyone sat back to catch their breath.

 

Clint recovered first and turned an assumed eye on the kids. He couldn't see any cuts or bruises or other signs of possible abuse but that didn't mean anything. They might be covered up or the kids could be orphaned or any number of terrible things.  
  
"Alright kiddos, spill." he said, tossing them his blanket. "Whatcha running from? Don't worry, we won't send you home."

 

“Pa,” the boy answered quietly, and his sister wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him into her lap.

 

“He’s gone crazy,” the little girl clarified. “Ma and Pa lost all our money so Ma killed herself, and Pa thinks that we should all kill ourselves too so we can be a family together again. He tried to poison my brother, so I ran us away.”

 

"You're a good sister." Clint said, giving her a sad smile. He moved a little closer and tucked the blanket around them. If he had it his way he'd go find their father and put an arrow between his eyes but there wasn't the time. And it would be exactly what he wanted anyway and a bastard like that didn't deserve to have anything go right. "Are either of you hurt? My friend here is a doctor, he can take care of you."

 

“No, we aren’t hurt,” the girl shook her head. “A little hungry, and really scared, but we aren’t hurt.”

 

“What are your names?” Bruce asked, already opening the suitcase and pulling out a can of peaches. He cracked it open and handed it to the pair, watching as the boy’s sister fed him from her fingers.

 

“I’m Clara, and this is my brother Marshall.” She gave them a smile as she fed her brother another slice.

 

“My name is Bruce, and this is my friend Clint,” Bruce said, moving to wrap the blanket a little bit tighter around them. “Are you headed for Brazil too?”

 

“Anywhere is better than home,” Clara shrugged.

 

"Not anywhere." Clint said. "Do you guys have any aunts or uncles or grandparents you could go to? There's not much you can do to support yourselves."

 

Clara looked like she was going to cry, but she swallowed and fed her brother another slice of peach. “No, no grandparents, and neither of our parents have any brothers or sisters. We don’t have anyone.”

 

Clint sighed. He knew that feeling. "We'll figure something out. You're both really brave, you know that? Not everyone would be able to do what you did."

 

“I think pa’s gonna die,” Clara said softly as she fed her brother another slice. “Marshall’s too young to really know what that means, I don’t think he’s sad. He’s just confused.”

 

Bruce felt his heart aching for the two of them. His paternal instinct demanded he somehow adopt them, but he knew better than to force his hand on children who were running from adults in the first place.

 

“We’ll keep you safe all the way to Brazil, and then from there we’ll figure out something else for you, okay?” he said as pleasantly as possible. “You’re going to have to do exactly what we say to stay safe though, alright?” the children only nodded.

 

Clint sat down next to the two of them and smoothed the girls hair. He'd never really dealt with children before but his brother had always pet his hair when he was upset.  
  
"Nothing bad is going to happen to you. Bruce never breaks promises."

 

She smiled at him as her brother ate another slice of peach from her fingers.

 

“Is that a bed?” he suddenly asked, twisting around to look over her shoulder at the piles of bags.

 

“I forgot to mention we’re tired.” Clara looked hopefully at Bruce, who gestured towards the bed. Clara handed him the peaches, announcing that he could finish them, and carried her brother and the blanket to the piles of bags. She smoothed the burlap and laid the first blanket down, climbed on top with her brother, and tucked the second blanket over the two of them.

 

They were asleep in minutes.

 

Bruce looked over at Clint with a smile. “I love kids. I’ve always loved kids. Kids are the only people that don’t make me nervous. They’re honest, and they have a wisdom that deteriorates with age. They don’t lie to hurt people and they don’t sneak around, and they don’t hide terrible secrets, and they aren’t dangerous. I like kids.”

 

"You are very naive." Clint said, giving him a quick kiss. "60% of kids are demons. And 100% are cockblockers. But I like these two so that's fine. We'll just have to make up for it when we're in Brazil."

 

Bruce made a face at the teen before moving towards the duo, pulling the blanket a little higher over their bodies.

 

“Let’s start building the hollowed-out fort we’ll all have to hide in, it needs to be good if we’re going to hide four people and a suitcase inside.” he suggested quietly, backing away from the children and inspecting the area for the best way to go about this.

 

"What are we going to do with them anyway?" Clint asked, grabbing a few bags to start building a wall. "We can't keep them. We aren't equipped to handle children. And I'm not sending them to an orphanage."

 

“We’ll find them a place to work,” Bruce sighed as he began to move crates. “Unfortunately there are all sorts of places in the town we’re going to that employ children for very little pay. But it’ll be enough for them to get by, and she’s definitely old enough to work. We can check in on them every now and again, too, make sure they’re doing alright, but I think you’re right – neither of us are good parent material.”

 

"I bet you are. I bet by the end of these three days they'll be begging you to adopt them." Clint laughed. He cleared a spot by the back corner. "Bring that stuff over here. If we use the corner it means less work and we need to get this done fast. Two of the walls are already built for us."

 

Bruce lifted one of the crates with a laugh. “Even if I’m good with children, I’m not safe for them to be around. I should come with a warning label,” he said as he hefted the heavy box to the ground near the corner.

 

"You're fine if you don't lose it. And even then Hulk would never hurt kids. He'd give them piggyback rides and let them sit on his shoulders and swing from his arms." Clint said. "And catch them when they fall."

 

Bruce frowned. “I don’t think you understand him as well as you think you do,” he muttered, trying not to sound upset. “He pretty much destroys things indiscriminately. He’s got a soft spot for you because you were the first person who ever treated him kindly other than myself, but no one else can be that first person. He’s out of positive connections to make – he’s got a very simple mind.”

 

"I think you underestimate him." Clint argued. "Simple mind maybe but that just means he separates the world on a really basic level. Friend and foe. And kids are automatic friends unless they start throwing rocks at him."

 

“Mh, no, he doesn’t work like that,” Bruce shook his head. “I know first-hand… he doesn’t work like that.” He wrinkled up his nose and sniffed loudly to clear his nose before he started getting really upset.

 

Clint frowned and dropped the bags he was holding. He pulled Bruce to him and kissed the top of his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't make assumptions. I just have a lot of love for the big guy. We have a lot in common."

 

Bruce laughed. “What on earth do you two have in common? You don’t have explosive temper tantrums or green chest hair, and you definitely have a larger vocabulary.”

 

"We're both idiots who kill indiscriminately and get hit a lot." Clint shrugged. "We have a lot in common, you just don't see it because you don't think of him as human."

 

“He isn’t human, Clint, and if you start to get too comfortable with him that’s when he’ll hurt you. That’s what he always does.” Bruce’s tone was firm, but not scolding.

 

 "If you say so." Clint said with a roll of his eyes. "Let's just get this done before the kids wake up."

 

“Who are you talking about? Clara suddenly asked from across the car. “Who’s the _other guy?_ ”

 

Bruce looked like he was about to sink through the bottom of the train car with fear and shame. Clint watched goosebumps stand the hairs on his neck up in the air. He froze, completely unable to form a sentence.

 

"He's Bruce's evil twin." Clint said as convincingly as he could. "You know, like in the movies. I don't think he's that bad but Bruce doesn't like having him around. That's why we're going away."

 

Bruce felt like he could breathe again, and he gave the girl a smile. She almost seemed convinced, but then she asked,

 

“Why does his evil twin have green chest hair?”

 

"He doesn't like looking like Bruce so he dyed his hair green. He also works out a lot so he's really big." Clint lied, smiling at her. "Now go back to sleep. You're going to wake your brother."

 

She seemed to accept this and laid down beside her brother, draping her arm over him. There was silence for a while before Bruce looked over at Clint and made a face, it was very clear he was trying very hard to suppress laughter as he lifted another box and stacked it on top of the first one.

 

They finished the fort by sun down and were able to move everyone in for dinner. They set up two small beds, one for the kids and one for Bruce and Clint. The bags kept out the worst of the cold and with all four of them squeezed inside it was pretty cozy.  
  
They had hamburger rolls for dinner with an apple for dessert for the kids. Clint told stories about his days in the circus as a kid that made Clara and Marshall laugh and Bruce smile. Clint couldn't help feeling a little warm and fuzzy when Bruce tucked the two kids into bed before sliding under the blanket next to Clint.

 

They experienced their first real need to hide the very next morning. Clara held Marshall in her lap with her hand over his mouth, and Clint checked several times to make sure she wasn’t accidentally covering his nose too. He seemed to understand the need to be quiet though, and didn’t even wiggle.

 

Bruce found himself looking around their closed-in fort for any crack of light, but they were locked in so tight that it was clear they couldn’t be seen at all from the outside. They all listened to the sounds of feet as a few people searched the car, but found nothing.

 

“… Guess the lock just froze and fell off or something,” they heard a voice say. Bruce felt Clint’s hand squeeze his knee.

 

And they were almost in the clear, but then there was a heavy iron _clunk_ , and Bruce’s stomach dropped.

 

“They re-locked the car,” he whispered hoarsely, panic rising in his chest. “ _They re-locked the car_.”

 

"Bruce, now is not a good time to freak out. You'll scare the kids." Clint hissed in his ear. "And your fingers are turning green. Relax. There's always a hatch in case of emergencies. We'll find it and we'll be fine."

 

Bruce swallowed hard and closed his eyes, counting his breathing to try and bring down his pulse. “Alright, you’re right, we’ll be fine,” he repeated, and he needed to believe it.

 

As soon as the train was moving again, they moved aside the box they closed off like a door and were able to move around the car again. However, seeing as inside their fort was the warmest and the softest, they only ever got out if they needed air by the door, they felt too warm, or they felt stiff.

 

They spent their time playing word games, like taking turns thinking of a movie title for every letter of the alphabet, and they sang songs. Bruce loved to hear Clint sing, his voice was almost angelic. He sang Clara right to sleep on his shoulder, and Bruce couldn’t help but love the image of the archer being parental, even if their skin tones were so far apart and their ages were so close together it was clear they couldn’t possibly be father and child.

 

At one point, Marshall woke up from a nap crying, talking about a terrible nightmare, and Bruce was able to console him, telling him that it’s okay to be afraid of bad dreams, because he has bad dreams too and they scare him. And if a big grown up can be scared of bad dreams, it’s okay for little boys to be scared too. At which point Marshall promptly climbed into his lap and wouldn’t leave for anything.

 

 

Clint wished he had a camera and at the same time was glad he didn't. A picture would have been great but at the same time it would have been a constant reminder of what neither of them could ever have.  
  
After that Marshall divided his time pretty evenly between Clara and Bruce. It was clear he and his sister were very close and it made Clint happy and a little sad at the same time. And deep down a particularly cynical part of him wondered how long it would last. He never let that side show and on the few occasions Marshall came to spend time with him he always made sure to say nice things about Clara.  
  
For her part whenever Marshall wasn't demanding her attention Clara and Clint spent a lot of time hanging out. It was like having a little sister. They teased each other and played games and whenever she started getting down he would make a face or sing a little bit of some ridiculous song to cheer her up.

 

Clara taught them both a song with simple lyrics that her ma used to sing to her and Marshall whenever they were sick, and told them to sing it to each other if the other ever didn’t feel good.

 

_Constant as the stars above_

_Always know that you are loved_

_And the love shining in you_

_Will help you make your dreams come true_

 

If Clint had the voice of an angel, Clara had the voice of a Goddess. It was high and sweet and pure, and the little song was so uncontaminated by adulthood and villainy that it nearly brought tears to both Clint and Bruce’s eyes.

 

And then Marshall suddenly decided to start asking questions.

 

What is Bruce’s favorite color?

Why did Clint have a bow and arrow?

How old is Bruce?

Why isn’t Clint wearing a shirt, isn’t he cold?

What does Bruce want to be when he grows up?

 

His questions were uplifting and innocent, and they couldn’t help but answer every one as truthfully as they could without breaking that critical, childlike purity.

 

They asked plenty of questions of their own as well. Things like, what's your favorite animal? Who's your favorite superhero? If you could have one superpower what would it be? Stupid things but the kids answered eagerly and they all debated and laughed and enjoyed themselves.

 

Marshall said that he thinks Captain America is the best super hero ever and he just knows they’re going to find him one day.

Clara really wished there were more super-ladies, but if she really had to pick a favorite it would probably be Gandalf, because he counts right?

 

They ate together, played and sang together, and when the doors opened and they had to hide, they kept one another safe.

 

On the last day of their journey, Clara asked,

 

“How did you two meet?”

 

"We were working at the circus." Clint answered. Bruce always got tongue tied with these kind of questions so he covered whatever lies they needed to make to keep the kids from finding out too much. "I was a trapeze act and Bruce was our doctor. He took care of us when we got sick or hurt."

 

“Oh wow, you were in a circus?!” Marshall grinned. “I love circuses!”

 

“We got to go to one a few months ago and Marshall got to swing on a trapeze they lowered down.” Clara smiled, shifting the boy in her lap so she could recross her legs.

 

“Did people get hurt lots?” Marshall turned his wide eyes to Bruce.

 

Bruce seemed to freeze for a moment. Flashes of the people who were hurt filled his mind, the people who were killed and frightened. Memories of being hurt himself – memories of being shot.

 

“No, my job was pretty boring,” he said after a moment. “The workers were all too good to ever make mistakes and get hurt.”

 

"It's mostly bruises and stubbed toes from all the clowns trying to squeeze together into their tiny cars." Clint said. "All clowns are wimps. They complain about everything."

 

After that it was more talk about clowns, and then how some kids are afraid of clowns, and then how Marshall killed a spider once and he wasn’t even scared.

 

And then before they knew it, it was their last few hours together, and Bruce was packing up the last of the food in the suitcase, and Clint was looking for the hatch.

 

“It’s going to be dangerous, getting out after the train has stopped,” Bruce told the kids as Clint inspected the ceiling. “We have to get out before they start to unload the cars, but after they stop moving completely. Clint and I will climb out first, and once it’s safe, we’ll lift you and your brother out.”

 

“You won’t leave us right?” Marshall suddenly asked.

 

"No way." Clint said fiercely. He gave up on the search for a minute to kneel beside Marshall and ruffle his hair. "We would never do that to you guys. I promise. We're going to help you, you just have to trust us."

 

It was at that moment that Marshall fell. It was probably a hug, but being a very strangely-proportioned little thing – as most small children are – he did his best by simply falling forward and throwing his arms up around Clint’s neck to keep from landing flat on his face.

 

Bruce saw the startled expression on Clint’s face, the look of adoration on Clara’s, and he felt something thaw just a little bit inside himself.

Clint hesitantly wrapped his arms around the small body, returning the little boy's embrace and trying not to cry. They hugged for a minute and then Clint smiled and took Marshall's small hand in his.  
  
"Come one, you can help me look for the hatch while your sister and Bruce pack. It'll be fun. Like a scavenger hunt."

 

Bruce organized the cans and bags as Clara handed them to him, and Marshall was lifted onto Clint’s shoulders with a whoop.

 

Clara smiled at them for a moment before turning her attention back to Bruce, and he smile faded as she spoke in a hushed tone. “Marshall’s really… he really likes you guys. I mean, I like you too, but… I don’t want to keep being a burden on you. We’re not your children, and it’s not your responsibility to take care of us. Marshall’s going to be heartbroken when he finds out we’re not staying with you, but we can’t expect – ”

 

“You’re very mature for your age,” Bruce interrupted with a smile. “Clint and I… we’ve got a lot more problems than we’ve let on. We’re… dangerous men, Clara. And even if I would love for you and your brother to stick around, it’s just safer for the both of you if you kept your distance.”

 

Clara  looked a little scared, but she steeled her brow and nodded firmly. “We can visit though, right?” she asked after a moment.

 

“Of course.” He took another can from her with a smile.

 

"We found the hatch!" Clint said excitedly, bouncing over to them and making Marshall smile. He swung the little boy down and handed him off to Bruce. "I'm going to go test it. Gotta check for locks or rusty hinges and stuff. If we make too much noise getting it open we'll get caught."

 

Bruce gave Clint a nod with a serious expression, and tried to ignore his pulse raising in his throat.

 

“I’m really glad you’re not gonna leave us in here,” Marshall said, crawling into Bruce’s lap and moving a can so it lined up perfectly with the one behind it. “I love you.”

 

A child’s candor can be a beautiful thing, but sometimes it can just hurt. Bruce ached with the want of being a true father, being able to wrap his arms tight around the boy and never let him go and never let him get hurt.

 

But the logical part of his brain forced his hand in a way he wished he didn’t have to, and he simply knocked his forehead against the back of Marshall’s in response, and exchanged a sad smile with Clara.

 

It took Clint about five minutes to work the lock off the hatch. He gave it to Clara to keep and maybe give to Marshall when he was older since they couldn't leave it behind. It would be better if it looked like someone had just been careless and forgotten about it instead of someone opening for no reason. Then he tested the door. It stuck at first but with a good deal of prying he managed to get it to open and close smoothly.  
  
"I think we're all set." he told them, coming over to stand beside Bruce and surreptitiously pinching his ass.

 

Bruce instantly jerked like he was on fire, almost elbowing Clint in the face in the process and turning the color of a beet as he hurled a scolding expression on him. It was incredible how he could have gone from the sexy, murmuring man tugging at Clint’s cock a few days ago, to this flustered, chaste almost holy man with a reprimanding expression. It almost made Clint nervous before he realized that, no, this was just Bruce being Bruce.

 

“I’m scared,” Marshall admitted quietly when the train began its long slow to a stop.

 

"Nothing is going to happen to you or Clara. Bruce and I won't let it. And we won't leave without you." Clint said. He drew a small X on his chest with his finger, right over his heart. "Cross my heart."

 

“I’d cross your heart too but its up too high,” Marshall said, smiling up at Clint.

 

They all stood in the back corner huddled together as the train slowed more and more. Bruce tightened his hand on Clara’s shoulder comfortingly, and she passed the squeeze to her brother’s hand. Eyes exchanged unspoken confessions of fear, scared smiles trembled on unsure lips.


	7. Chapter 7

The train whistled and the voices of the train workers could be heard, and Clint was moving. He climbed the crates and creaked the hatch open, peeking out. There was no one nearby, they were starting with unloading the staff from the engine of the train, and it would take them a while to work back into the hundreds.

 

“Coast is clear, come on,” Clint opened the hatch the rest of the way and pulled himself onto the roof of the train. Bruce climbed up next and handed the suitcase up, which Clint threw to the ground unceremoniously. He allowed Clint to pull him up onto the roof of the train, and then Clara was helping her brother to climb the crates in front of her.

 

Clint took the boy beneath the armpits and pulled him up onto the roof of the train, and followed suit with Clara, until all four of them were huddled in the cool midday breeze on the top of the rusted car.

 

Bruce helped Clara climb down the ladder on the side of the car, and she helped her brother until four sets of feet were crunching on the gravel beside the train tracks. Bruce looked over at the suitcase with a sigh.

 

“We should probably just leave it,” he said, looking around for the best place to dispose of it. “We can get more later, and it’s only going to make getting away more difficult.”

 

“You’re right,” Clint said, taking it and sliding it into an open, rusted car on the other train beside them, which looked very thoroughly abandoned.

 

“Come on, kids, we gotta get a move on,” Bruce said, taking Marshall’s hand and Clara took the boy’s other hand, and they slipped between two of the cars to get to the other side of the tracks, closer to the edge of the trainyard.

 

Hearts pounding loudly, every noise made them jump, and they had to hide more than once, but it looked like they were in the clear. The gates to the railyard were just a couple dozen yards ahead.

 

And then, the worst.

 

“You! Stop!”

 

Whirling around, Bruce and Clint witnessed a man charging at them with his hand out. They had less than a second to think, and surprisingly, Clara was the first to react.

 

“ _Run!_ ” she screeched, taking her brother’s hand tighter and surging forward. Clint and Bruce followed suit right behind her, and once the man realized that they were running from him, he made an emergency broadcast on his walkie talkie.

 

A man leaped out from between two cars, and Bruce and Clint dodged easily around him. It took only two steps for them to realize that Clara and Marshall were no longer beside them.

 

“ _GO!_ ” Clara shrieked, struggling in the man’s grip but still holding her brother tight.

 

Bruce saw the defiant gleam in Clint’s eye, but more workers were closing in on them. Making a decision he regretted for the next ten years to come, he seized Clint by the arm and began to sprint away.

 

Clint tried to pull away and go back but he couldn't. Bruce's grip was like iron and he was determined to go in the opposite direction. He could still see the look of fear and betrayal on Marshall's face as he and Bruce sprinted away.  
  
A few guards tried to stop them and Clint's training kicked in and with a few well places punches they were free in seconds. Then they climbed the fence out of the train yard and ran long after it was out of sight.   
  
They finally stopped, panting and hearts pounding in their chests. Clint, being the younger, more physically fit man, was the first to recover and turn his angry glare on Bruce. Eyes blazing with barely contained fury he stood over the man, fists clenched tightly at his sides.  
  
"We're going back." he growled.

 

“We can’t,” Bruce shook his head, still gasping, doubled over on his knees. “We can’t risk it, they’re going to be gone by now anyway, and we can’t let anyone else see our faces.”

 

"I don't care! I'm not abandoning them. I promised we wouldn't so we can't." Clint said, already turning to head back.

 

Bruce grabbed Clint’s shoulder. “Clint, _no_ ,” he said firmly, still breathing irregularly. “It’s better this way. They’ll be safe. Clara scarified herself for us, and we are not taking advantage of that by throwing it back in her face and getting sent to jail when they catch us.”

 

"What do you think is going to happen to them Bruce?" Clint demanded. He was so angry he was trembling. He didn't know if he could keep from punching Bruce for much longer. "You think they're going to be happy now? Do you really think they're going to find some happy home to live in? Because that's not what happens."

 

“They’re going to be given to the police, who’re going to put them in some sort of home,” Bruce said, standing up a little taller. “Not everyone is as misfortunate as you, Clint, we can’t assume everything will go wrong for them. Inversely, what do you think would happen to _us_ if we were caught? This is the greater good we’re talking about.”

 

"No. You're talking about throwing two kids under the bus. They're lives are going to be hell and even if they do get sent to homes they'll be torn apart and in a few years they won't even remember what the other one looked like." Clint snapped at him. "My brother was just like Clara and I haven't seen him in years. I'm not going to let that happen to Marshall."

 

Bruce smoothed his hands over his face as he let this news sink in. Clint never liked talking about his brother, so this came as more than just a little shock, but he tried to keep it under control.

 

“Clint, no, I’m talking about all the lives that will be saved by _me_ avoiding _prison_. We’ve had this conversation once already – you remember? That’s the most dangerous position I can think of, I’ve got _goose bumps_ just talking about it. The chances of the Other Guy coming out are astronomical, and I can’t take that chance. As much as it pains me to let them go, they’ve got each other, and I think they’re going to be better than you think they will be. To be perfectly honest I’m a lot more invested in you than I am in them, especially because I know that they will be safe, and Clara told us to run anyway. Are you telling me that going back and destroying her last attempt to get _us_ to safety in the hopes that she’ll somehow still be there with her brother is more important to you than staying safe, and staying hidden, with me?”

 

"We made a promise." Clint said quietly, close to tears. He turned away so Bruce wouldn't see him start to cry. He was right of course. Bruce couldn't go to prison, and if he was caught he would more than likely facing the death penalty or at least life imprisonment in some shit prison in the middle of nowhere. But he could still see Marshall's face when they had sprinted away and he knew it wasn't something he could ever forget.

 

“I know, and it’s not as though I’m happy with this,” Bruce swallowed, wringing his hands together as he tried to push aside Clara’s terrified voice. “But this is the most logical decision. Clara will explain to Marshall why we ran, why she did this for us. She did it because she _cares_ about you and I, she’s trying to return the favor by saving our lives after we helped her up on the train and helped them escape from hell.”

 

"Logical or not it was the wrong decision." Clint said. "But there's nothing we can do now. Let's just go."

 

“What would have me do, Clint?” Bruce suddenly grabbed the boy by both his shoulders and whirled him around to face him. “Would you have had me turn, throw around the guards – possibly _kill_ someone – and frighten the kids with images that would haunt them for the rest of their lives? Would you rather I instill a fear in them that goes so deeply they’d need _therapy_ for it?!”

 

"No! That's not what I want. I wouldn't ask you to do that." Clint replied, staring at the ground rather than meeting Bruce's eyes. "I don't have any kind of plan or anything I just don't want to leave them behind. They deserve better than that. They're good kids. We were friends."

 

“There’s nothing we can do, Clint, there is _nothing we can do_. They’re safe, they’re together, and they won’t be hurt. You and I have a plan,” he lifted Clint’s chin and looked him in the eye. “We have to get a place with two rooms and sixteen cats and I’m going to be a doctor for the people who need it most, and you’re going to get a job and support us, remember?”

 

"Yeah. I remember. It's a good plan." Clint said sadly. He closed his eyes and sat down on the ground, the last of his energy draining out of him. "We're going to have to go back anyway. We aren't going to make it without our stuff. And I need my bow."

 

“Your bow,” Bruce whispered hoarsely, and suddenly he felt weak. He walked unsteadily to a tree and sank down to the grass, letting its coolness soothe him as he pulled his knees up and hid his face.

 

This was so much more than he was prepared for, much too fast. He wondered how life would be if he was still in his cage. His safe, reliable, lonely cage. If Clint had never come into the picture, he’d still be alone and protected. He’d be lonely, but he wouldn’t know he was lonely because he wouldn’t have had that interaction that made him crave Clint. And this wouldn’t have happened.

 

His toes curled in his shoes and he covered his face with his hands.

 

Clint looked at Bruce and shuffled a little closer to him. He looked like the weight of the world had just been dropped on him and he couldn't stand the pressure of it. He wasn't sure if Bruce wanted support or space now so he left enough space between them for him to make that decision.  
  
"We can forget if you want. I don't need my bow." It hurt to say but he could always make another if he really wanted to. And it wasn't like he was going to have much time for archery if he was going to be supporting both of them.

 

“Did you drop it?” Bruce’s voice was strangled, he was clearly in tears but hiding his face. “If you dropped it while we ran they probably took it. They might be expecting us to go back for it.”

 

"Then we're screwed." Clint said. His head fell back and his hand started twitching. He wanted his bow and his arrows. He wanted to shoot something. He needed to work out the stress and the tension that had settled around them. "Fuck! What are we going to do now?"

 

Bruce took several deep, steadying breaths. “We’re going to walk to Rocinha, we’re going to settle into a place that’s for sale… and then we’ll figure it out from there. One step at a time. I managed to get my hands on some Brazilian currency back in the US, so that’ll help us out, and our fake passports are actually folded up in my back pocket.”

 

"Then we should get going. The sooner we get on our way the better." Clint sighed. He stood and held his hand out to Bruce to pull him to his feet. Then he pulled Bruce in close for a second, wrapping his arms around him and leaning his head against his shoulder.

 

“They’ll be okay, Clint,” Bruce whispered. “And we’ll be okay. Nothing will be absolutely perfect, so don’t hold your breath. But we’re going to be together, and we’re going to make it just fine. It’s all we deserve.”

 

They simply looked at each other for a long moment, mapping the features of one another’s faces before they stepped apart and began their long journey.

 

Morning turned to afternoon, and the day grew hot as the sun climbed the sky. Clint took off his shirt again and tucked a corner in his pocket so he wouldn’t lose it. Bruce unbuttoned his shirt a few buttons too as they walked through the crowded streets.

 

Bruce would periodically tell Clint where they were, and how far it would be until they reached Rocinha. And when they weren’t talking, they were thinking about Marshall and Clara. Bruce wanted desperately to believe that they would be safe, but Clint’s words drove a stake into the back of his mind – it was all too possible that they would be separated. His heart ached for them, but he tried not to dwell on all the hypotheticals.

 

They reached Rocinha by mid-afternoon. The town was cramped and busy and unbearably hot but it was the perfect place to disappear to. They got a few suspicious glances but no one looked twice or asked any questions. Clint could already guess that the crime rate was high and income was low which meant two broke guys on the run shouldn't have too much trouble finding their own niche.  
  
The spread out as they moved through the narrow streets, never getting so far away that they couldn't see each other but far enough that they could each look into different vacant homes and haggle over prices.  
  
Night was falling when Clint finally saw Bruce waving him over to a broken down shack where a man stood, holding his hand out for cash. They looked it over together and while it was hot and two of the windows were boarded up the walls were solid and it had two rooms, just like they'd planned.  
  
"Works for me." Clint said with a shrug. It was better than most of the places he'd been shown.

 

Bruce thanked the man, who counted the cash as he walked away, carrying his “for sale” sign as he went. Bruce immediately set to work prying the wood off the windows so they could get a breeze, and sent Clint in to see if he could find something to cover the open doorway with.

 

They spent the next few hours making little adjustments. There was only one small moldy mattress, twin-sized with a strange stain on it that might have been blood, resting directly on the dirt floor. But Clint pulled the sheet off of it – it would be too hot to use it anyway – and fastened it on rusty nails over the doorway, where the breeze caught it and made it billow.

 

Bruce carried all the nail-ridden wood into the house as soon as the windows were uncovered, he had no idea if it could be used for something later but it would be better to have it and not need it than vice versa.

 

Clint had straightened up the main room – which consisted of one table, one chair, and a very rusty-looking kitchen in the corner. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling, and a dirty shower curtain hung in the far corner that served as a bare minimum modesty barrier. Bruce turned on the shower – which had no temperature controls, only on-off – and let it run for a while to get the brown rusty water out of its system. He did the same with the rusty kitchen sink, and proceeded to plug in the tiny fridge, listening as it buzzed and hummed to life.

 

“We’re going to need to get a couple bicycles,” Bruce mused as he leaned in the door frame, watching the crowds in the streets steadily thin out. “And a second mattress, even squished together we aren’t going to fit on that one comfortably.” Letting the sheet fall back down over the doorway, he looked over the tiny room of their house. It was dirty and small, but it was _theirs_. Clint was sitting at the table with his face in his hands, he was clearly exhausted. “And a second chair,” Bruce added with a smile.

 

"Tomorrow." Clint responded, waving Bruce off. He was seconds away from passing out across the table. "All of that can wait. And you're going to need doctor stuff and I'm going to need a job but that can all wait. Now I want something to eat and then we'll go to bed. I'll take the chair for tonight."

 

Bruce shook his head. “No, you’re going to go lie down on that mattress and go to sleep, I have way too much nervous energy to sleep tonight. I have too much planning to do, I have lists to make, I have plans to write down before I forget them. Go lay down, I won’t have you arguing with me, go.”

 

He pulled Clint out of the chair and urged him towards the bedroom. “You rest, I’ll go buy something small for both of us and bring it back. Go, don’t argue with me.”

 

He ducked out of the small shack, feeling Clint’s smile aimed at the back of his head.

By the time he returned, Clint was out cold. With a little laugh, he kept the boy’s food wrapped up tightly and tucked it into the fridge for him to eat in the morning.

 

Clint woke at dawn the next morning. His neck was a little stiff but he felt alright otherwise. He was still hungry, having slept through the night without having eaten at all the previous day. He got up, ran through a few stretches and went out into the kitchen/living room. He was greeted by the sight of Bruce, slumped over the table, clearly asleep. Papers covered in scribbles lay around him, on both the table and the floor, and his food lay mostly untouched beside him.  
  
Clint rolled his eyes, smiling fondly, and walked up behind him, rubbing the man's shoulders to ease him awake.

 

Bruce groaned and opened his eyes, feeling stiff and sore. He squinted, peeling off his glasses where they’d formed deep scores into his face. He pocketed them and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he muttered, scrunching up his face and rotating his neck and shoulders to work away some of the stiffness.

 

Clint pressed on one of the knots in Bruce's shoulder, making the man cry out and try to wriggle away. He held him down and kept working, smoothing out the tension in his muscles.  
  
"Stay still. This is why I offered to take the chair old man. I'm only 20, my back can handle it." he chided. He bent down and pressed a kiss to the back of Bruce's neck. "You're going to be sore all day if you fight me."

 

Bruce relaxed into the boy’s touch with a sigh, smiling at the kisses that occasionally peppered his neck and cheek.

 

“I wasn’t planning on going to sleep at all,” he said with a yawn, trying to rub out the lines that his glasses pressed around his eyes. “I don’t even remember laying down.”

 

"No one does when they're that tired. You think you're only blinking and next thing you know it's morning." Clint replied. He let go of Bruce's shoulders and went over to the fridge. "I can't get your lower back like that. If you want you can lay down on the mattress after breakfast and I can take care of it then but I can't promise I won't grope your ass."

 

Bruce smiled as he stood up, cracking his back a few times, cracking his neck, and stretching his arms up over his head. He felt very old, being as stiff and tired as he was, but he figured that would go away with time as he got into the swing of things.

 

He wrapped up the rest of his food and put it in the fridge over Clint’s shoulder as he fetched his own, kissing his ear before heading into the bedroom. The mattress was honestly disgusting, but it was the most comfortable thing he could imagine at that point.

 

“I read up on LGBT rights in Rocinha, actually,” Bruce called out to the boy as he listened to him open the wrapping around his breakfast. “And it turns out they’re actually pretty accepting. They have a Pride March here every year. While I don’t think we should go running around flaunting the fact that we’re intimate with one another, we don’t have to worry about being hogtied and burned at the stake if we’re found out.”

 

"I'm not one for public displays of affection anyway." Clint said. He brought his food and the chair into the bed room and sat down next to the mattress. "I mean I'll grind with a guy in a club or suck him off in an alley but I've never been the make out on a street corner type."

 

Bruce felt a shiver run through him as he imagined Clint going down on him in a dark alley in the middle of the city.

 

“I’m not a fan either,” he laughed, hoping he wasn’t as flushed as he felt he was. “I remember high school – all the kids macking on their girls and guys in the halls, pressed up against lockers or standing in the middle of the hall like they were trying to make a statement. I hated the constant reminder that every single kid in my school was getting laid except for me. It’s made me kind of bitter about PDA.” He reached out and ran his knuckles along the boy’s knee. “Besides, I feel like sexual activity is… private. Sacred. It’s opening up your body for someone else to see and touch, and that’s not anyone else’s business.”

 

Clint nodded and smiled around the food in his mouth. Sacred. It wasn't a word he would usually have used and it made him feel a little dirty after the few random hook ups he'd had. But all of that was behind him. He was with Bruce now. No more one night stands or using sex to get close to a target. He had someone who meant something to him now and that was nice.  
  
"I totally agree." He said before shoving more food into his mouth. "By tha wa, how muh money w' gat lef?"

 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bruce said, lazily swatting at the boy’s ankle. “We’ve got enough. Enough to at least get a second mattress for tonight, and enough to buy dinner for you. I’ll probably just finish what I was supposed to eat last night.” He laughed at his own lack of appetite.

 

Clint swallowed thickly, not having chewed most of his food, and gave Bruce a quizzical look. "I'd have thought you'd be starved. The big guy has to burn a lot of calories, even when you haven't changed recently."

 

“Mh, he’s pretty subdued right now. I think he’s confused by all the change in scenery over the last few days. I think he thought we were back in a cage when we were in the train car, and I’m pretty sure he’s sulking.” Bruce said sleepily, rubbing at the lines on his face again.

 

"Does he miss the cage?" Clint asked. He had always assumed the Hulk was miserable being locked up like that. But it was pretty much the only home he knew so he might be feeling a little home sick for it.

 

“I don’t know,” Bruce sighed, staring up at the rusted ceiling. “He’s sending off a lot of negative emotions, but I don’t know if he wants it back. He’s never known anything else, the closest to freedom he ever experienced was when he carried you out of the circus while you were bleeding.” Turning his head to look at the boy, he reached up to rub his knee affectionately.

 

"I still owe him for that." Clint said. He set down his half empty food container and slid off the chair onto the mattress. "I'll do some of that now. Turn around and I'll work out the kinks in your back. Then we'll go shopping."   
  
That's almost exactly what they did. It took almost two hours for Clint to get Bruce's back into a state he considered acceptable for a human being. As a thank you Bruce kissed him, which then deepened, which evolved into groping, and then suddenly they were jerking each other off. They didn't make it out into town until mid day where they picked up a cheap, used mattress, a rickety chair to add to their dining room and some dinner for them to share. Between that and the left over they figured they would have enough to last them at least until the weekend.  
  
Clint spoke to some of the locals about easy work nearby and heard about a factory that was hiring. He was fit and it was hard labor and that made him a perfect candidate for the job.

 

Bruce did not have the same luck. When he asked about a nearby hospital, or even a doctor’s office, he was met with the same result every time – they had none. The closest hospital was _Hospital Miguel Couto_ , and that was a twenty minute drive away – and that was generously assuming that the people of Rocinha _had_ cars. It was an hour’s walk away, and an injured or sick person could not be expected to make that journey on foot – Bruce was horrified.

 

He spent the next three days bargaining with locals, telling them that he planned to set up a local doctor’s office free of charge for people who were sick and injured and having babies – but that he couldn’t do it with the little money he had. By collecting just tidbits from locals, coins and small bills and handfuls of change, he had enough to buy the building directly next to his and Clint’s home.

 

It was absolutely exhausting, running all over hell and back to collect money from people who wanted to help, and then finding basic doctoring supplies. He still longed for his materials that he had to leave back in America, but left it up to Clint to get them to Brazil, just as he promised before.

 

Just a few days later, it was on the news that a pair of children was found at the railyard. Bruce called Clint in at once to listen to the broadcast on the radio.

 

“ _…The girl, Clara, told the police that she and her brother had fled from America from their abusive father, and hitched a ride on a train after seeing the door open. She and her brother both insist there was no one else on the train with them, despite the fact that the workers clearly remember seeing two adult, white men with the children. They fled the scene and officials have been unable to track them down. If you have any information regarding the situation, please contact your local authorities._ ”

 

"We had better hope people like you enough not to turn us in." Clint said. He was a little rattled at hearing about the kids and knowing that Clara was still covering for them. It was endearing and only made him miss them more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters

And as it turned out, people _did_ like him. He was a local doctor who charged a pay-as-you-can fee, and accepted it if someone said they couldn’t pay a cent. He delivered a woman’s twins for free, and she promised she’d pay him back in some way. The next day he and Clint were given a massive casserole that lasted them for meals for over two weeks.

 

He knew that people knew it was him, and Clint got funny stares too. But nobody was willing to lose their free doctor.

 

He got donations almost daily that ranged from pocket change to very large bills, and it made up for the fact that he didn’t charge a fee. His office was packed every single day, non-stop appointments flooding in. Broken bones to set, colds to diagnose, injuries to treat. In six months, the death rate in Rocinha dropped by over 15%.

 

His equipment was shipped to him and just like that, he grew 10 times more efficient. He eventually doubled his office space by buying the next building down and knocking down the wall in between, where people who needed to stay overnight could sleep in a cot. He even offered beds for three days at a time to people who needed a place to sleep while they tried to find a home.

 

And he was personal. In one year, he met almost every person in the city, and their children, and their extended family. He could greet just about everyone by name, and he was adored and greeted by a hundred people when he would go into town for any reason. Clint was similarly loved, just for being in direct relation to their beloved doctor.

 

But Clint, on the other hand, hated his job. He got up before sunrise every morning, biked to the factory and then worked until well after sundown. He came home sweaty and hungry and tired and his pay check was barely worth the trouble. He barely spoke to anyone and his fingers always itched for his bow.  
  
The only time he was really happy was when he got home to Bruce. They would eat and talk and he'd listen to what Bruce had done at his clinic that day. Then they'd sit together and listen to the radio and kiss and usually things progressed to the bedroom. Their mattresses were pushed together so they could lay snuggled together when they fell asleep. Then in the morning Clint would slip away and they would start again. They invested in a door after the first time a neighbor walked in with a question and they’d been kissing at the table. She was flustered, but accepting, and said she’d come back tomorrow.  
  
It wasn't a bad life, not really. They weren't as poor as many of their neighbors, thanks to Bruce's clinic and Clint working overtime. They had food and a radio and running water and each other. And by the end of the year, despite having a job he hated and having ended up as one of Bruce's patients more than once Clint was pretty happy.

 

Part of what helped the two of them get through week after week was the time they carved out specifically for one another. They’d probably go mad if they didn’t have one another’s touch to look forward to.

 

Bruce had been hesitant the first time Clint suggested that they actually have sex, but after he felt the bliss of having the boy inside him, they rinsed and repeated frequently. Morning shower sex was common, because the water was often so cold that they needed the other’s body to keep from freezing.

 

Bruce would kiss his lover’s hands and rub them with oil every single night without fail, to keep them from creaking and stiffening with all of his work. His muscles sharpened over the months, his arms grew in size and his abs tightened, and all in all his body broadened out with muscle added by the pound. Bruce felt weak by comparison, and had to remind himself that as a doctor, it wasn’t his job to be as physically fit as a factory worker. Besides, there was no shortage of praise that passed Clint’s lips when he would ride deep into Bruce’s body every other night. 

 

Almost one year and a half later, on a day that he more or less guessed was Clint’s birthday – he remembered that it was early in September, but they never really celebrated one another’s birthdays, and figured it wouldn’t matter if he was off by a day or two – Clint came home from an exhausting day, as usual, to find an ornate metal and wood-carved bow and a leather quiver full of metal-shafted, metal-tipped arrows sitting on the table. Bruce wasn’t even there, he was in his office next door helping a woman through contractions. And he knew that Clint would want to immediately find a place to shoot, and he’d need a few hours privacy.

 

Clint nearly cried when he saw the gift. It was the most beautiful thing he had seen in years or at least months. Maybe his entire life, he couldn't decide. He had gone so long without a bow and somehow Bruce had managed to find one that fit his hand almost perfectly. He wanted to rush over to Bruce's office right then and thank him but he knew better. There would be time for that later that night. Now was the time for him to test it out.   
  
So he hopped on his bike and found the most deserted part of town to set up some obstacles in. And then he started to shoot. It took him a few tries to really get back into the feel of it. Some of his arrows were inches off where he wanted them. He didn't miss entirely but he was off and it started to frustrate him. But then his muscles began to remember and he could almost feel his eyes sharpening and arrow after arrow hit its mark without fail.  
  
He passed hours that way before deciding to call it a night. He collected all his arrows, returned them to his quiver, and went home to find Bruce sitting at the kitchen table as always, waiting for him.  
  
He stormed in, right up to Bruce, cupped his face, and kissed him until his lungs were burning with the need for air.  
  
"You are the most amazing man I've ever met and I don't care who you had to murder for this gift. I love it so much and I will do anything you want as a thank you." he said, grinning from ear to ear.

 

Bruce pulled the boy into his lap, and the chair creaked beneath their combined weight, but held. They kissed and kissed, arms wrapped around each other as their mouths connected and breathing was forgotten. Then Bruce demanded that Clint wash off because he still had the factory’s filth on his body, as well as the sweat he worked up while shooting his arrows.

 

Bodies formed against one another in the shower, and Clint fucked Bruce slow and deep, and even then he didn’t feel like it was enough thanks.

 

But that was okay, said Bruce, because he _did_ have a request. As well as the bow, he’d bought a sort of costume. A tiny leather dress and a pair of blue high heels. Nothing too extravagant. Clint remembered their first encounter, how he’d told Bruce about the mission he’d worn a little skirt and high heels, and he remembered the look of longing on the older man’s face.

 

He strutted his feet almost bloody, and didn’t hesitate for one second when Bruce said he wanted inside the boy. Skirt rode up, heels still strapped firmly in place, Clint rode himself on Bruce’s cock until they were both seeing stars.

 

From then on Bruce almost always topped and it seemed like he could never get enough. Anything would set him off. Even little things like Clint polishing his bow seemed to send him into a frenzy. They'd be sitting, talking, and suddenly Bruce was pulling him into his lap and then their clothes would be gone and that was it. Any time, any place. It didn't matter.  
  
And Clint loved it. He was more than capable of keeping up with Bruce and he didn't mind being bent over the table for no apparent reason. Besides, the sex was more than good. It was mind blowing and it only got better as Bruce learned more about his body.

 

Bruce wasn’t sure what it was, but something about dominating Clint made his mind swirl and his body tense. It was like a throwback to the train, when he felt so powerful by bringing Clint to a climax with only his hand, only it was so much more potent now. Watching his own manhood disappear into Clint’s body and claim him wholly and completely was satisfying on levels never before imaginable.

 

He craved the control. He could control Clint’s body in ways that he couldn’t control his own. Psychologically, it made sense that he was so domineering as soon as that door was opened, because he made up for what little control he had over his situation with the Other Guy by controlling everything about Clint’s body. And it was made all the better by the fact that Clint never complained once.

 

The first time Bruce talked Clint to orgasm was probably the best thing to ever happen in Bruce’s life. He stood behind Clint in the shower, tied his hands to the shower head, and proceeded to dirty talk. It was the first time he’d ever tried, but he must have done a really good job because Clint came, untouched.

 

Which opened a wide window to all sorts of dirty talk. Bruce discovered that Clint loved it when the older man would call him a slut, would comment on how hungry he was for Bruce’s cock. And Clint discovered that Bruce got off on being called ‘sir’ or ‘doctor.’ They discovered things about one another’s bodies that they didn’t know themselves.

 

It wasn't all about sex either. The new awareness carried over into other aspects of their life. Even when they weren't having sex they would lay together, Clint with his head in Bruce's lap, letting the older man stroke his hair while they read or listened to the radio or just talked. He didn't mind being vulnerable around Bruce and letting him take the lead in most things.

 

It slowly became a sort of common, unspoken knowledge that the two of them were in a relationship together. They would be asked about one another by friends and coworkers, and everything was pleasant for the most part.

 

It was almost like they forgot bad people existed in the world.

 

It wasn’t until two years settled into their homes and the society that Bruce woke up one morning to find _paneleiro_ spray-painted across the two buildings of his office in massive red letters. When Clint asked what that meant later that night – it was one of the handful of words he didn’t know – Bruce told him it was nothing to worry about. Clint had to ask one of the people who had volunteered to scrub the vandalism off Bruce’s building what it meant, and they explained it was the English equivalent for the word “faggot.”

 

Clint came home that night, arms crossed and his expression caught between disappointed and angry. He glared down at Bruce, not taking his usual seat.   
  
"Why didn't you tell me what it meant?" he demanded.

 

Bruce sighed and looked down at the table. “I didn’t want you to be worried,” he said, wringing his hands together. “It was probably a couple of kids with fears of their own and I didn’t want you feeling like you had to track them down because of what they did.”

 

"Bruce if I went around hunting down every person who had ever called me a faggot I'd never have time to sleep." Clint said with a roll of his eyes. "I'm not even that upset by it. I don't like people insulting you but what's done is done. What I'm pissed about is that you lied to me."

 

“I didn’t lie to you, I hid it from you, give me a little bit of credit,” Bruce said, trying to smile while looking guilty.

 

"Same fucking thing Bruce. I don't need you to protect me. I'm more than capable of taking care of myself." Clint replied, frown deepening. "And you don't need to protect anyone from me either. It's not like they set the place on fire. I'm not about to go all angel of justice on them over some spray paint."

 

“I wasn’t trying to protect you, I was trying to keep you from needing to protect me. It was a selfish desire to feel like I was capable of fending for myself when my own office is vandalized, it didn’t even really have anything to do with you.” Bruce hung his head in his hands, taking a few deep breaths. “I wanted to be in control of the situation, I wanted to feel like I could handle it all alone.”

 

"You shouldn't have to. I'm as much to blame as you. They attacked you because of our relationship which makes this as much my problem as it is yours. That's what being a couple _is_." Clint said, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

 

Bruce’s jaw tightened and he lifted his head to look at Clint. “Are we?”

 

Clint took a moment, feeling dumber with every millisecond that ticked by. “Are we what?” he finally asked, unable to take the unbroken eye contact.

 

“A couple? Are we a couple?” Bruce asked. “We don’t see each other all day, and then we come home exhausted and eat dinner together and fuck, and then pass out and do it all over again, it’s the same thing day after day. I want… I want to _do things_ with you. We aren’t a couple right now we’re two friends living together who get intimate and then leave for hours at a time. I feel like I’m not allowed to be picky, but… but this is something that I want, and I’ve wanted for a very long time, and there’s just… it seems like there isn’t ever enough time in a day to spend with you, not like I really want to.” He hung his head again, taking slow, deep breaths to avoid tears. He was hilariously over-tired, they both were, and he more than a little bit of an emotional mess ever since the vandalism on his office.

 

"We don't just fuck. We talk and we laugh and you help me with my reading sometimes." Clint said, sitting down in his chair. "That means a lot to me. So does the sex. It always felt like more than just fucking to me."

 

Bruce instantly took Clint’s hands across the table, running his thumbs over the backs of his hands. He lifted them, pressed his forehead to the younger’s knuckles, and continued to breathe deeply.

 

“I need an assistant. I need someone who can take over the office for me on weekends, when you aren’t working and I’m still next door taking care of people who need it. But no one here is trained as a doctor except for me, no one else knows how to assist these people.” He murmured, rubbing his forehead back and forth across Clint’s knuckles slowly. “I need a break. Two years I’ve been doing this, seven days a week, I need a break. I don’t know what to do. Everyone means well, but good intentions aren’t going to save a life if someone really needs it, so I can’t just hire the first person who asks. And what about payment, would I need to pay this assistant? What are the chances that an MD comes strolling into town with the full intention of volunteering their time? Every scrap of money I get I funnel into that office, keeping it up, making sure I have supplies and proper equipment, I can’t _afford_ to pay someone. I don’t know what to do. I’m going to work myself to death at this rate.”

 

"What if you didn't have the practice?" Clint asked. Bruce looked at him as if he had grown a second head and he hurried on. "Just hypothetically. What if you made house calls instead? Upkeep wouldn't be an issue and you could have some extra time between patients."

 

“No, that would be way worse,” Bruce laughed, shaking his head. “Then on top of working well into the night, I would also be biking all over the city, through traffic, into unknown corners of the slums… it’s just hazardous. Not to mention exhausting. I just… I can’t turn people away. I can’t categorize one person’s needs above another’s, I just… I just can’t. And so I never turn people away, and so if three people show up right as I’m supposed to close, I can’t tell them to just _hold your baby in ma’am_ or _bring your sprained ankle to me in the morning_ , or _sorry your child has a fever, I have to go home_. I can’t turn people away, and making house calls would give me even fewer hours to spend helping people. This martyring business is a full-time job, Christ.” He groaned and pressed his eyes against the boy’s cool knuckles. He was feeling flushed and dizzy, and he loves the feeling of Clint’s skin against his own.

 

"I can help when I get home." Clint offered. "I know how to handle burns and sprains and smaller wounds. I can't deliver a baby or help someone who's really sick but I've had plenty of experience with the little things. I've been dealing with them my entire life. I even know how to handle a concussion."

 

Bruce smiled up at Clint for a moment before laughing. “Yes, but _you_ as my assistant sort of defeats the purpose of having an assistant so I can spend time with you, doesn’t it?”

 

"It'll be temporary. Just until you find someone else to cover for you. I hate seeing you so worn out." Clint said. He brushed his fingers over Bruce's forehead and cheeks, trying to sooth him and smooth away the creases in his brow.

 

“Like you’re one to talk, Mr. Manual Labor,” Bruce said, tilting his head into Clint’s touch. “I don’t need you working for me to, you’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll deal with my work issues and you deal with yours okay? Unless you want me talking to your boss about your ridiculous hours for you.”

 

"I'm a bit younger than you. I can handle the extra work better. And I don't have another personality screaming for my attention 24/7." Clint said. He leaned forward and kissed Bruce's cheek. "I'll give you some time to think about it. Why don't we go out for dinner tonight? I know a place not too far off. It's small and a little dirty but I've heard it's good."

 

Bruce grinned again, and even though he felt like his body was about to fall into pieces he was so tired, a night out might be a good thing. He checked on the lie-in patients one more time, changed a set of bandages, made sure the boiler was set right to sterilize his instruments, and they were off.

 

The food wasn’t that expensive, and the establishment was run by the husband of the woman he’d delivered her twins for, so they were greeted by name and given the best table. After a complimentary dessert of spicy and sweet bread, they walked home feeling very content.

 

The next week, Bruce got a small flaming ball of paper wrapped around a rock thrown into his office window, and it knocked over a cup of pens and nearly caught his desk paper on fire. Luckily though, the young boy who was responsible was caught immediately, since it was the middle of the day, and Bruce had a very serious talk with him about vandalism. The fourteen-year-old insisted he wasn’t the one who spray painted the wall, but Bruce had a very strong feeling that he was lying.

 

And after that, no further attacks occurred. The paint had been totally scraped away, the boy’s parents reprimanded him strongly, and it seemed as though everything was finally well. Bruce was feeling energized, like he could take on the world again. It was almost disheartening that he nearly fell apart at the first criticism to his sexuality – but to be honest he’d never faced such criticisms before, so had to give himself a little bit of credit for being dispirited by the attack.

 

Then it was business as usual for the next few weeks. Bruce told Clint about the boy and they quietly rejoiced that the perpetrator had been apprehended.

 

Bruce almost never asked about Clint’s work, usually because there was very little for Clint to say. It was hard work with little pay – all the good-paying jobs had been reserved for people with degrees – and his boss was rather rude to him. He was horridly racist against Americans, and made it known that he disliked Clint basically for his face, but kept him around with _just barely_ high enough pay because he was a good worker. He called Clint things like _baleia_ and _pateta_ , and worked him like a dog because he knew that Clint needed the money so desperately he’d put up with just about anything. It was solely his income that paid for modifications to the house and food, since Bruce felt horrible using the money donated for anything other than his office.

 

But Bruce knew that Clint didn’t like cracking open the can of worms that was his job as soon as he was free and home and with Bruce. That was his time to forget and to love and to feel good about his life.

 

So when a day arose that Bruce’s patients were thinning out considerably around the same time that Clint was supposed to come home, he excitedly closed shop early and made his way to the industrial district so he could surprise Clint and walk him home.

 

He could already almost see the smile that would spread across Clint’s face when he would see that Bruce was there to walk him back to their house.

 

The industrial district wasn’t very heavily populated because of the thick smog and heavy litter, so the streets were thinning out the closer to the factory Bruce got. He looked at his watch to make sure he still had time to get to the factory before Clint got off work. Ten minutes and about a five minute walk, he had plenty of time to get there and maybe even a few minutes to wait.

 

A group of young men, probably a little bit younger than Clint, were walking down the other side of the street towards him, and Bruce gave them a friendly smile. However, he was met with sneers and accusations.

 

“You looking at us, _paneleiro_?”

“Cocksucking _gringo_.”

 

Bruce instantly felt his stomach drop, and it took only one quick look around to see that there was no one else around for them to be referring to. He mumbled a hasty apology and started to walk faster, but one rough shove to his shoulder later and he went falling to the ground.

 

It was the first time he’d been under real, physical attack since the circus, and his eyes flashed green for a moment before he shook his head and carefully staggered to his feet. It would be best not to antagonize them, probably best not even to look at them as he began a quick retreat.

 

“He thinks he better than us, won’t even look us in the eye!”

 

And before he could blink, he was being dragged into an alley, and the Other Guy was pounding at the walls of his mind.

 

Clint came out of the factory and grabbed his bag and went for his bike. He had burned his hand today and had kept working despite the pain. Now it was throbbing and he was tired down to the very bone. He didn't even get on his bike. He just dragged it along behind him with one hand, too tired to do anything else.  
  
He wasn't nearly far enough away from the factory when he heard the sounds of someone in pain, mixed in with some Portuguese words he didn't understand but from the sound of them they weren't particularly friendly. It didn't sound like a fair fight and while his head was telling him to move on and get home to Bruce his few morals were telling him to at least check it out. So he sighed and dropped his bike, ducking into the alley.  
  
The sight that greeted him made his blood run cold. Bruce was on the ground with a group of young men around him, kicking and yelling out insults. He could see Bruce's features contorted in pain and rage and he looked...larger than usual.   
  
"Hey! Leave him alone!" Clint yells, running towards them, fatigue washed away in a wave of adrenaline.

 

The men were obviously cowards, because as soon as they saw the young, strong man running towards them, they darted away, cursing.

 

Bruce was hunched over on the ground, bleeding from his swollen lip and doing everything in his power to hold back the green that was slowly spreading down his forearms.

 

“NO,” he grunted, his breathing labored, his fists clenched tight and his body convulsing. “ _NO!_ ”

 

Clint ran to Bruce and dropped to the ground beside him, taking the man's bulging shoulders in his hands. His skin was turning green and burned hot beneath Clint's fingers.   
  
"Bruce, you gotta stay with me, okay? I'm here now, no one is going to hurt you anymore. I've got you." he whispered urgently. Maybe there was still time to coax the man back. He hadn't fully changed yet. Maybe they could still stop it.

 

Bruce was losing it. He heard Clint’s voice at the edges of his mind, felt his touch, but he was so disconnected from it. He screamed as the Hulk grew and he was forced into the cage in his head the giant green monster usually inhabited.

 

“NO!” he cried again, and his growth seemed to halt for a moment, but he was totally green now and almost twice his usual size. His shirt was ripping at the seams and his body was trembling with rage and pain.

 

"Bruce!" Clint yelled but he knew it was too late. There was no stopping the Hulk now. His only chance was to try to calm him enough for Bruce to take over again.   
  
"Hulk?" he tried again, louder but in a gentler tone. "Hulk it's Clint. You remember me, don't you?"

 

Clothing hanging off in shreds, the massive creature stood easily five heads over Clint. His body heaving, hands balled in loose fists, he stared forward at Clint with wide, animalistically curious eyes. He was breathing deeply through his nose, his frame shuddering with every pant.

 

He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

And then he opened his mouth and roared.

 

"No!" Clint shouted, like he was scolding a child. He raised an accusing finger at the Hulk, giving him his best disappointed glare. "Stop that! There's nothing to be angry at here. It's just Clint. Just your friend Clint."

 

The Hulk immediately closed his mouth and stared again, his brows furrowing twice as he tried to work his simple mind back over his memories. He blinked and then with a mighty thud, fell back into a sitting position, and continued to stare at the archer.

 

“Clint,” he said after a moment. “Clint hurt.”

 

Smiling Clint shook his head. "Clint’s better. Clint’s better because of Hulk." He smiled and tentatively laid a hand on the Hulk's massive shoulder. "Hulk saved Clint."

 

And then he was pulled directly into the Hulk’s lap with two big arms wrapped around him, and maybe holding just a little bit too tight. But all it took was one firm tap on his arm and he eased up a little bit.

 

“Hurt,” he said again and stood, holding Clint much like he’d held him those few short years before. “Hurt me.” He started to thunder towards the opening of the alleyway.

 

"No!" Clint cried, grabbing the Hulks arm and giving it a little squeeze so he would stop. "Clint took care of them. Clint saved Hulk. No one will hurt Hulk now."

 

The Hulk looked confused by this, and a little bit angry, and his toes flexed and his mouth drew into a frown and he almost seemed to whine.

 

“Hulk hurt them back,” he grunted and started to walk again, a little bit faster.

 

Starting to panic Clint grabbed his arm again. "No. If Hulk hurts them Clint will be very sad. Hulk wants to make Clint sad?" It sounded ridiculous and he honestly wouldn't be that upset if the guys got the stuffing kicked out of them but the Hulk would go beyond that. He didn't know how to control his strength and Bruce would be heartbroken if he woke up only to find out he had killed a group of idiots after they had already run away.

 

The Hulk made a loud, distraught noise and suddenly put Clint down on his feet, and said, “No.”

 

"Good Hulk. That makes Clint happy." he said, smiling broadly so the Hulk knew he meant it. He stood on tiptoes and brushed the Hulk's hair back, the same way Bruce sometimes did for him and then cupped his cheek, just as he had done for Bruce when he had been feeling tired and stressed and upset. "Hulk made Clint very happy."

 

The Hulk simply grunted, and frowned at Clint like he wasn’t very happy with him. “Then what do I do?” he asked suddenly, and it was definitely the longest sentence Clint had ever heard from him.

 

"Hulk can go to sleep. Let Bruce out. Or Hulk can talk to Clint." he offered. "Clint likes Hulk."

 

The Hulk sat down again with a grunt and a thud, and he probably put a crack in the earth beneath him.

 

“Don’t like talking,” he said, sounding thoroughly grumpy. “Want hurt.”

 

"Why?" Clint asked. It was a simple question, one he was sure no one had ever asked the Hulk before.

 

“Because everybody hurts me,” the Hulk said without even a second’s hesitation.

 

"I know what that's like buddy." Clint said, starting to feel a little teary. "No one likes you and it makes you mad. But I like you."

 

The Hulk simply grunted and shuffled until his back was facing Clint. He looked over his shoulder briefly to make sure he was still there before looking away again and crossing his arms.

 

Clint stood and leaned over the Hulk, draping his arms over his shoulders and standing on his tip toes. "I do. Clint likes Hulk. We're friends. You know friends? I won't hurt you."

 

“Don’t believe you,” The Hulk grunted, wriggling like he was trying to shake Clint off his back.

 

"Why? Have I ever hurt you?" Clint asked, holding his ground as much as he could.

 

The Hulk huffed, but didn’t answer.

 

“ _Have I?_ ”

 

“…no.”

 

"And have you ever hurt me?"

 

“Didn’t mean to,” the Hulk said quickly, as if he thought Clint was accusing him of something. And it broke Clint’s heart. The Hulk was so angry and scared all the time that it was his natural assumption that he hurt everything he laid eyes on.

 

"You never did." Clint assured him, tightening his arms in an affectionate squeeze. "You never hurt me. You won't. Just like I won't. Hulk and Clint don't hurt each other."

 

“Promise Hulk.”

 

“I promise.”

 

Suddenly he was being grabbed bodily over the Hulk’s shoulder, and his grip on Clint’s arms was just a little bit too tight again, but he was then cradled in a giant expanse of green flesh, held between the Hulk’s broad chest and his massive arms. It was remarkable how gentle he could be when he tried, and it made Clint’s chest ache when he remembered the sight of him, terrorized and screaming inside that cage.

 

"Hulk feeling better now?" he asked, returning the Hulk's gentle embrace.

 

“Mh.”

 

He held Clint in his arms for almost twenty minutes before he began to feel his form shrink. The green tint receded, the muscles contracted, and suddenly Clint was supporting a very, very weary half-naked Bruce under one arm.

 

“Just let me sit,” Bruce whispered hoarsely, and sank down to the dirt feebly, shaking and horrified.

 

"We can't stay here." Clint said and he lifted Banner into his arms bridal style. "I'll carry you. We need to get you some food and new clothes."

 

Bruce sagged in Clint’s arms, relinquishing himself totally to the fear and tiredness that were sinking into his body.

They were given strange looks as Clint walked through the street with Bruce, and a few people recognized them and asked horror-struck questions,

 

“Is he okay?”

“Is he dead?!”

“What happened!”

 

Bruce blacked out a couple times on the trip home, and didn’t really come around again until he was laid across the mattress, and a sheet was pulled up over his body. He looked up weakly at Clint, blinking and reaching out for his leg as he began to retreat from the room, scared to be alone.

 

"You want me to stay?"  Clint asked. When Bruce nodded he smiled and kicked off his shoes to climb into bed with him. "Then I'll stay. You need to sleep though."

 

“No one was hurt?” he asked, his fingers curled tiredly in the material of Clint’s shirt.

 

“No one was hurt,” Clint assured him, pulling him close and kissing his forehead. Bruce was asleep in seconds.


	9. Chapter 9

Clint used a neighbors phone to call into work sick so he could stay home with Bruce. He watched over him all night, ignoring his own need to sleep and soothing him when he started to get restless. Bruce had told him that the nights after he changed usually were rough and full of nightmares but this was the first time Clint had experienced it first hand.  
  
As morning approached Bruce relaxed and Clint made them breakfast, taking juice for himself and putting water in the kettle to make tea for Bruce when he woke up.

 

Bruce was tightly wrapped in the sheet when he walked into the main room half an hour later, but he made sure it was bunched high enough that it didn’t drag on the dirt floor. He looked weary and haggard, with his eyes darker than usual as he sat in his chair at the table, pulling both his legs up onto it cross-legged, sitting in the same position he always did when he meditated in his cage in the circus after turning.

 

He blinked slowly as Clint put a bowl of warm curry down in front of him, and he licked his lips slowly as the smell wafted up to him. Clint put a fork down on the table beside it, leaned in to kiss Bruce’s cheek, and that’s when Bruce lost it. He hunched over and started to cry.

 

"Hey, hey don't cry!" Clint said, panicking. He was out of his chair in a second and kneeling at Bruce's side, hands resting on the man's knees as he looked up at him helplessly. "Are you still hurting? Do you want me to get you some aspirin or something? How can I help you Bruce?" 

 

“I was doing so good, two years without an incident, I was so good,” Bruce’s voice was broken by sobs, and he felt weak and emasculated because he was so easily moved to tears, but he was so broken right now that he hoped it didn’t matter.

 

"It's not your fault Bruce. Those guys hurt you. That's not your fault. You can't blame yourself. You got hurt and the Hulk wanted to protect you. You have nothing to be ashamed of." Clint said, voice cracking. There was no reason for Bruce to be hurting this badly. He hadn't done anything wrong. Even the Hulk hadn't done anything wrong. No one had gotten hurt or killed. He hadn't broken so much as a window.

 

Bruce was rocking gently, breathing erratically. Clint tried to reach up and cup his face, but Bruce swatted his hand away.

 

“Don’t touch me!” he cried suddenly, his fists clenching in his hair as he fought to calm down.

 

"Sorry." Clint said. He stood and went over to the stove, turning it on to make Bruce's tea. He busied himself with that for a few minutes, not knowing what to say or do other than bring it to Bruce to help him calm down.  
  
"If it helps, he didn't do anything bad."  Clint told him as he set down the cup.

 

“It doesn’t _matter!_ ” Bruce shouted, looking up at Clint with a borderline hysterical expression.  “It doesn’t matter what he did, it matters what _I_ did! What I _wanted_ to do! I’m a doctor, I’m in the business of _helping people_ , but I wanted to _tear them apart!_ I _wanted_ to let the Monster out because _I wanted to hurt them!_ ” He hid his face again, his breathing irregular and his body rocking more quickly as he struggled with a second wave of restrained rage.

 

"Everyone wants to hurt people sometimes Bruce." Clint told him, leaning against the table. "But you didn't. You tried to hold the Hulk back and even when you couldn't you didn't hurt anyone. That means a lot more than what you wanted to do. You could have just let him go and let him tear those guys apart, well before I got there but you didn't. You held back. You did what any decent man would."

 

Bruce didn’t argue anymore, but he didn’t seem to agree either. He just hung his head and focused on breathing and calming down.

 

It wasn’t until almost fifteen minutes later that he finally sat up and took hold of the mug, bringing it to his lips so he could sip at the bitter, warm liquid, but left his curry untouched.

 

"I talked to him."  Clint said. "We talked for a little while. He's not so bad if you can get him to calm down. He's just scared most of the time."

 

Bruce just shook his head after a few shallow sips, and put the drink back down. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he muttered, running his shaking hands over his face. “Mh, yeah, I’m gonna be sick.” With nothing else to do he moved towards the shower corner, leaned over, and promptly vomited. Then he reached up and began to run the water so it would wash away the filth. Clint stood beside him, ready to rub his back or carry him back to bed if he needed to and Bruce would allow him to touch him again.

 

“I think… I’m going to go back to bed,” Bruce moaned, stumbling across the room the long way so he could use the wall for support. “If you could… put a sign on the clinic door… please…” he said as he disappeared into the bedroom.

 

Clint put up the sign and then settled himself into his seat at the table. Bruce's curry was still sitting there, untouched, and in a fit of frustration Clint chucked it at the wall.  
  
Bruce didn't come out of his bedroom until the next day. Clint had cleaned up the mess by then and had gone to work, knowing better than to miss two days in a row. He came back to find Bruce sitting in his usual chair and silently went to the kitchen to make him another cup of tea.   
  
The next week was like that. They barely spoke to each other. Clint made little attempts, asking how Bruce was doing or what he'd like for dinner and was rewarded with one word answers most of the time. Then Bruce would go to bed and Clint would sit with him until he fell asleep before returning to the kitchen to sleep at the table. He didn't know how long it would take Bruce to recover but he didn't want to push for his spot in bed until Bruce was ready. Things were tense enough with Bruce's self-loathing and Clint's frustration at his own helplessness. He was scared that adding an argument on top of that might be the end for them so he let Bruce go at his own pace.

 

And then almost ten days later, when Clint was making Bruce a cup of tea as usual, he felt arms wrap around his waist and a cheek lay against his shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce murmured in a gentle apology, closing his eyes. “It’s never taken me this long to recover… back when turning was my entire life, it wasn’t like this. It didn’t… it didn’t hurt this bad. I… I took this new life for granted, I thought I’d escaped the danger. I forgot to take into consideration that just because I’m free, it doesn’t mean I’m safe. I need to get over myself, and open my eyes, and realize that I’m still here, I’m still with you, and nothing has changed.”

 

He rubbed his nose back and forth over the back of Clint’s neck, feeling more at peace than he’d felt in days.

 

"You are safe though." Clint said, turning to face Bruce and holding him close. It felt so good to hold him in his arms again. He had started to think it might never happen and that this might not be something they were going to get past. But here was Bruce, coming back to him, wanting him again and wanting to get their lives back on track and knowing that made it feel like the last ten days hadn't even happened. "I'm not going to let anyone hurt you. And I'm not going to let him hurt anyone. As long as I'm here I'll do everything I can to make sure nothing like that ever happens again. I promise." Clint said, sealing it with a kiss.

 

Bruce smiled feebly and closed his eyes, knocking his forehead against Clint’s.

 

“I’m still not wearing a shirt,” he said with a smile, and he and Clint shared a giggle.

 

"I like you without a shirt. It's nice." Clint said, running his hands down Bruce's torso. "Moving back into the bedroom would be nice too."

 

“Are you trying to get my pants off too?” Bruce raised a suggestive eyebrow.

 

“I might be,” Clint mirrored the gesture.

 

The remainder of the morning were filled with calls of pleasure. It was the first time in months that Clint was inside Bruce, but they were both okay with that.

 

When Bruce returned to work a couple hours later, he was instantly flooded with people coming in to ask if he was alright. Children who had bee concerned with his health kissed his cheeks, and parents who were afraid their children’s doctor had suddenly died offered their healing words.

 

News spread fast of Bruce’s return, and he was visited by more people asking him if he was feeling alright than he was visited by people who actually needed his doctoring. He’d never felt quite so loved in all his life, and he was moved to tears on more than one occasion over the course of the day.

 

Clint came home that night to find Bruce beaming. He was grinning and chattering on about his day as he made dinner and looked so happy he was nearly glowing. It was a beautiful sight and made Clint want to kiss him. So he did. He held Bruce close and kissed him until the other man swatted him away, complaining that the food was going to burn. It was so normal and domestic that Clint couldn't help but obey, grinning almost as broadly as Bruce as they settled in to eat.

 

Life was normal like that for a while. Almost ridiculously normal.

Clint actually found out that he had a strong affinity for cooking. Bruce had always taken it upon himself to make sure they had food, but over those days where Clint had to take care of Bruce, he realized that he really enjoyed it.

 

From there, they started to get more ingredients and less fully-prepared meals, so that Clint could create things for the two of them to try. They always laughed over failed experiments, but Bruce never judged him.

 

Bruce made sure he kept more manageable hours at the clinic, because he hated not being home when Clint came home at 8:00 every night. He wanted to be able to greet him – though he never did try to walk him home again. In fact, he condemned that part of the city to be “unsafe” and never ventured within twelve blocks of that direction. Clint understood that Bruce was still frightened, but he never said anything. He didn’t want Bruce to think he thought he was weak.

 

And as soon as Clint started actually spending his time in the kitchen, they started to buy things for the kitchen. They fixed the stove so it was less temperamental, bought a few pots and pans, fixed the sink so it had hot water to properly wash dishes – which they’d previously never really used, usually defaulting to the plastic containers their pre-made food came in. Little additions and adjustments over several months. They never had so much extra money that they could spend it whenever they wanted, and that just made every new addition to the kitchen all that much more special.

 

And with so much time spent in the kitchen nook, it officially opened up the prospect of kitchen sex. Like the time Bruce went down on Clint while he was chopping vegetables, and warned him to be careful with his knife. Or when he fucked Clint deep and rough against the counter after he turned on the stove and they had to wait for the water to boil before Clint could try his hand at pasta for the first time.

 

And before they could blink, another six months went by.

 

Another thing that had changed over that time, one of the few reminders that there had ever been that period of tension between them, was the silences. There had been silences before, long companionable silences when they were fixing dinner or Bruce would rub oil into his hands to keep them from getting dry or stiff. There had been silences when they lay in bed after sex or in the morning and neither of them wanted to pretend they were awake yet.  
  
What had changed was the type of silence. It wasn't easy or comfortable anymore, not for Clint. He realized during those times that when he had thought he knew Bruce he actually had no idea what was going on in the man's head. He didn't know what he was thinking, whether it was about the leak in the roof at the clinic or about the family he may have left behind years ago when he had become what he was.  
  
Clint hesitated to ask though. He knew more than he was probably ever supposed to know and while he was curious he was also cautious. There were plenty of things he didn't talk about either and while he would answer Bruce if he ever asked he was a little relieved every time he didn't. It helped to fill the days with work and cooking and sex and laughter rather than leave the silence to fill the air with unnecessary worries and questions.

 

Bruce either never seemed to notice these silences, or he chose to ignore them, because his mood was so bright over those months that he never stopped glowing. Clint heard constant comments from people in town talking about how _happy_ he looks all the time.

 

After managing his hours, Bruce fell into a fairly regular sleep pattern, which did wonders for his mood, and even his appearance. The dark circles under his eyes slowly shrank, giving him a younger look even though his constant grinning deepened the laugh lines around his mouth.

 

He started to experiment with facial hair at some point, and he and Clint would laugh when he remained unshaved for a few days so he could shave into silly patterns. They discovered mutually that he did _not_ look super with a mustache.

 

Clint’s unease grew at the same rate as Bruce’s happiness, and he even seemed to wonder if there was something else contributing to that happiness, it was so radiant and all-encompassing. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was some _one_ else. And then he felt guilty for thinking that way, and it just made him even more miserable.

 

It took several weeks more for Bruce to notice that Clint’s mood wasn’t as bright as it used to be. Assuming he was in a funk, he let it go for a few days. When his mood only seemed to take a turn for the worse, he finally spoke up.

 

However, he was met with abrasiveness for his efforts. Clint seemed offended that Bruce was worried about him, as if he wasn’t worth the time to agonize about.

 

Finally Clint couldn't take it anymore. Bruce thought he was acting weird and he was so tired and frustrated that he had lashed out at him for asking if he was alright. There was no reason for Bruce to be worried of course and it only made Clint feel worse to know that he was so down he was upsetting Bruce.   
  
So he decided he had to do something to fill in the silence and set his mind at ease, if only for the sake of getting back to normal.  
  
His opportunity came one night when he was making dinner. Bruce was checking over some of his patient files and their little shack was quiet except for the sound of the stew he was making simmering on the stove.  
  
"So," he asked and flinched. His voice sounded too loud and too harsh in the silence and he could see that he had startled Bruce. Even worse he didn't know what to say so he went with the first question that popped into his head.  
  
"Why did you decide to be a doctor?"

 

Bruce lowered his glasses (a new pair since the incident in the alley) and turned to look at the younger man with a smile. “Well at first it was because my father was a doctor. I sort of expected it of myself, I wanted to… prove myself to him I guess.” He swallowed hard, looking away. “But ultimately, it wasn’t my decision. It was… ahh… mh, it was the military’s. They… caught me planting a bomb in my elementary school that I built myself, and instead of getting angry they _recognized my technical genius_ and that’s the first time I was really recognized as anything _positive_ so I went with it. I guess then I actually got interested in it and I just went from there.”

 

" _You_ planted a _bomb_?" Clint asked. "What for? Middle school I might understand or high school but elementary school couldn't have been that bad for a genius like you."

 

Bruce chuckled breathily, looking down at his hands as he began to wring them. “Yeah… no, it was pretty bad,” He murmured. “I was… I was bullied a lot.”

 

Clint gave him a sad smile. "Me too. Kids can be cruel. What about your family? Didn't they help you out?"

 

Bruce’s smile vanished entirely and he turned away from Clint to look back at the table.

 

“Mom died while I was young,” he muttered quietly. “And… dad never wanted kids to begin with. He… He thought the only reason I had above-average intelligence was because I’d absorbed nuclear radiation from his projects and I was some sort of mutated… freak. I guess it’s irony, that’s exactly what happened a couple decades later.”

 

"Man. And here I was thinking you'd had the good life. My family sucked." Clint admitted. He'd never said it before because he hadn't wanted Bruce to think less of him. But Bruce hadn't had it much better and that was weirdly comforting.

 

Bruce’s shoulders sagged a little bit and he huffed a small laugh. “No, I never lived the good life. I did… I did like my cousin, while I was living with my aunt, before I planted the bomb. But my life didn’t turn around until I… I started building bombs for the military, God I am fucked.”

 

"It turned around though." Clint said. He turned the stew down even more and went over to the table. "You made something of yourself. That's impressive. And you ended up getting like ten college degrees."

 

Bruce finally turned to face Clint again with a small smile. “No, from bombs I went to gamma radiation, I went to the Hulk, I went to the circus. I didn’t make anything of myself until I came here, with you. And that’s all _because of you_. You saved me.” 

 

Clint smiled a little uncomfortably and toyed with the idea of retreating back to his kitchen.   
  
"I didn't really do anything. I was being selfish. I wanted someone to talk to. You seemed safe I guess."

 

“No, you pulled me out of what I perceived to be safety, and opened my eyes. Prison is safe, but it is still a prison.”

 

"Thanks I guess." Clint said and this time he did go back to the kitchen. He hadn't expected the conversation to go this direction and he wasn't comfortable with Bruce praising him.

 

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked, following the man into the back corner. He could feel the tension on him, see it in his shoulders and his gait. He leaned against the counter to give him space instead of holding him from behind like he usually did while Clint stood at the stove.

 

"I just don't think you should be so grateful. I'm the reason they put you in those tight shackles and whipped you and why you got shot. It was really the Hulk that got you out, not me." Clint said with a shrug. He pulled a few carrots out of the fridge and started chopping them up to add to the stew. The stew didn't really need it but he wanted something to do with his hands.

“Causality,” Bruce said, and he wanted to reach over and touch Clint because he looked so anxious, but decided that it would be better not to touch an anxious man while he’s holding a very large knife. “Chain of events. One couldn’t happen without the other. If I wasn’t put in the smaller shackles and shot, I wouldn’t have broken free, and I wouldn’t have been put in the shackles to begin with, without you. The point is, if you had never shown up in my life, none of this would have happened. The Hulk couldn’t break free of the cage in those shackles, I know, I specifically designed them myself to withstand his strength, and I lined them with a material that’s illegal in most countries to ensure he wouldn’t break free. And they knew that, but they put me in smaller shackles anyway because they wanted to _hurt_ me, and that’s why I broke free. Because you were in my life. Give yourself some credit.”

 

"You make it sound like it was fate or something." Clint said, tipping the carrots into the pot.

 

“I hate giving fate the credit,” Bruce shook his head with a wry smirk. “Fate is something that people blame when things go wrong and praise when things go right. It’s nothing but a big excuse. What happened to us,” he paused and tapped a finger against Clint’s shoulder. “Is because you pushed me out of my comfort zone and reminded me of my humanity.” 

 

"I don't want the credit Bruce." Clint admitted quietly. "I don't want credit for anything good. You take the credit or give it to fate or God or whatever. Just not me. Because if I take credit for something good that makes anything bad I do from now on so much worse."

 

“If you’re afraid of your own good deeds how can you expect to do any more?” Bruce was awestruck at Clint’s fear of being a good person.

 

Clint rubbed the back of his neck and started to stir the stew. "It's different for you Bruce. You do good things every day. You're a good person without trying and even if you hurt someone its not _you_. It's the big guy. But all I do is hurt people and I can't blame it on anyone else. That's part of why I can do it. Because I know I'm the one pulling the trigger and loosing the arrow and I can walk away any time I want. It’s always my choice and 90% of the time I do it. Because I'm not a good person and I want to change but if I do and fuck up then it’s not just doing something bad, it’s betraying everyone who trusts me."

 

“So you’re telling me I should just accept the fact that you’re a terrible person and nothing you will ever do will change that so you’re just not going to try?” Bruce pushed off the counter with an expression somewhere between anger and disappointment.

 

"I don't want to get your hopes up. I want to be better but I don't know how. None of my skills transfer into anything good." Clint replied. He hated the way Bruce was looking at him. It made him feel small and pathetic and half of him hoped the other man would just hit him rather than continue giving him that look.

 

“I don’t want to linger around waiting to be disappointed by you,” Bruce said quietly, shaking his head and looking at the counter with a sigh.

 

"You're not leaving me are you?" Clint asked, eyes wide with fear and dread and a deep sadness. He had expected this but he had started to hope he might be wrong.

 

Bruce shook his head again. “I want you to take credit for everything you do. The bad _and_ the good. You can’t be half a person, Clint. You can’t own up to half your life.”

 

"If I do will you stay with me?" Clint asked hopefully. "If I own up to everything?"

 

“I’m not staying under conditions, Clint,” Bruce said, reaching forward to stroke the younger man’s cheek. “Then you’ll constantly feel like you have something to prove.”

 

“So… y-you wont?”

 

“I’m not leaving,” Bruce said firmly. “But for your _own_ sake. Understand that we wouldn’t be here without everything you’ve done.”

 

Clint leaned into the other man's touch like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

 

"Alright. I'll try."

 

Bruce sighed wearily, leaning in to give the other man a gentle kiss. He pulled him close, wrapping his arms around his solid waist and curving his body against his chest. He loved the feeling of Clint in his arms, and hated to see him so insecure.

 

Clint let Bruce hold him, his embrace easing away the tension and making him feel warm and safe. He was a little embarrassed by how needy he must seem but was also glad that Bruce wasn't someone who would ever make him feel bad about it.

 

When the urge to cry had dissipated Clint pushed Bruce away gently and gave him a smile.

 

"I needed that. Now go sit. Dinner's almost ready."

 

Bruce was hesitant to move away, but move he did, sitting down at the table as Clint told him. And, as usual, the food was amazing.

 

They went to bed together as usual and if Clint was trying harder than usual to pleasure Bruce he was a good enough guy not to say anything about it.   
  
Clint lay awake after, with Bruce's arms wrapped around him and his breath ghosting over his ear. Clint couldn't sleep. Instead he went over every significant moment of his life, looking for anything good he might have done. He didn't find anything. In every memory he was either the coward who needed protecting or the aggressor, dealing out death at someone else's request.  
  
Even saving Bruce, which he had been assured was a good thing he had done, didn't seem right. All he could see was himself coming in, threatening someone with an arrow or putting a bullet in someone's head.   
  
That was an image that was far too common in his memories. The view from his bow as he aimed at a wooden target or a human body was one of his most common remembrances. He'd walked away from a few jobs, sure. There had been a kid who had accidentally found out too much who he refused to kill and a woman who was harboring someone's enemy who he had walked away from. But those cases were scarce. Usually he loosed the arrow, watched his target fall and collected his money, end of story. If he used a lot of that money later to try to drink the memory away well, that was his business.  
  
He wanted to be a good man for Bruce. He wanted to make him happy. They'd both done things they regretted but Bruce was atoning for what he'd done. He was helping people while Clint went out on his days off and practiced the same weapon he'd used to commit more crimes than he wanted to think about.  
  
So he needed to change. If he was going to be the kind of person who deserved someone like Bruce he had to change and that meant giving somethings up.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PORN IN THIS CHAPTER
> 
> I'M JUST GOING TO ASSUME THAT WON'T BOTHER YOU 
> 
> BUT JUST IN CASE
> 
> YEAH
> 
> THERE'S PORN HERE

He got up at his usual time in the morning, careful not to wake Bruce, and went about his morning routine. Then before he left for the factory he stopped and took up his bow and quiver. He usually kept them by the front door in case he got a few hours to go out and shoot but he couldn't do that anymore. It was too much of a temptation.   
  
He couldn't bring himself to break the bow. It was beautiful and it had been a gift from Bruce. But he took it and the quiver to the small closet he and Bruce had built months ago. He gave them both one last long look before hiding them away in an empty corner and leaving for work.

 

Bruce saw that the arrows were gone when he woke up, and at first he was worried that Clint had taken them to work with him. But after a very short snooping session, he found them sequestered away in the back of their closet.

 

It concerned him that Clint had put them away, but figured he’d let him take things at his own pace. If he thought avoiding shooting his bow would make him a better person, then he’d let Clint believe that for as long as it took.

 

But it was pretty much immediately that he noticed a change in Clint’s behavior. He seemed slower somehow, like he was taking a few extra seconds before making any decisions, and he always seemed anxious. Bruce tried to be extra nice, but he feared that Clint felt he was patronizing him.

 

At a loss for what to do, Bruce threw his own anxieties into his work. He tried to ask Clint once how he was feeling, but Clint only responded with an indistinct grunt and a request to be left alone. He left on a bike ride and didn’t come back for three hours. He smelled like alcohol, and Bruce turned away from him in bed.

 

The very next morning Bruce jumped on the topic before it had the opportunity to get out of hand, and expressed that he would not tolerate it if Clint started to drink his feelings. Clint challenged that he was his own man and it wasn’t up to Bruce and he’d drink if he want to. He regretted it at once, regretted it at work, and on the way back. Bruce was still in the clinic when he came home that night. He didn’t come back for dinner.

 

Bruce checked on the bow and arrows every single day, but they never moved. He thought he saw the strap move or the arrows shift, like Clint would fiddle with it and toy with the idea of taking it out, but ultimately left it where it was. Bruce knew it was bothering him, it was like a drug and he needed a fix, but he thought he couldn’t take a hit for fear of Bruce’s reaction.

 

Clint had just finished eating, he didn’t even bother scolding Bruce for not eating enough, when suddenly the bow and quiver appeared on the table in front of him.

 

“I’ve never really gotten to watch you shoot,” he said, looking Clint in the eye. “Will you show me?”

 

"I don't do that anymore." Clint replied, eyes never leaving the bow. He wanted to do it, to take it and Bruce out to his usual and show him what it was like. Shooting was where he had always found peace and he wanted to show Bruce that side of him. But he realized how twisted that was, finding peace in a weapon, and felt ashamed of himself.

 

Bruce frowned and sighed, taking off his glasses in order to massage between his eyes.

 

“Clint, you’re getting fidgety. I can tell. Avoiding this part of you… it isn’t healthy. You’re anxious all the time, you’re confrontational, and it’s tearing you apart. I don’t want you to ignore _any_ part of yourself. Everything that you are is made up of the choices you make, the things that you do, the things that you _love_. You are an archer, Clint, and it’s a beautiful and underappreciated art and you’re so good at it, and I don’t want you to stop because of what I said before. I don’t want  you to stop because of me.”

 

"Its not you." Clint said. "Not entirely. Nothing good comes out of it. I should never have let them train me to use a weapon any way. I'm too messed up for it."

 

Bruce suddenly grabbed Clint by the chin and lifted his head to look him hard in the eye.

 

“You are _not messed up_ ,” he said in a harsh tone, his eyes severe. “You are the most wonderful person I know, and I’ve met a lot of wonderful people in my time here. You are patient and you are real and you are passionate, and I want to see you shoot. I want you to share it with me.”

 

Clint looked up at Bruce, his eyes intense and unwavering. He watched him, analyzing every detail of his expression with a practiced efficiency. Then his eyes softened and he nodded.

 

"You really know just what to say to make me feel better. We'll go tomorrow. It won't be as good as my stuff in the circus but it should impress you." he said, picking up their plates and taking them to the sink.

 

Bruce relaxed and drew a breath in with a smile. He came up behind Clint at the sink and wrapped his arms around him, kissing the nape of his neck and rubbing his nose across it like he always did.

 

“I really do care about you, Clint. I care about _you_ , and that includes the good, the bad _and_ the ugly.” He whispered gently, pressing his cheek to the younger man’s shoulder.

 

"Luckily there isn't much that's ugly about me." Clint laughed. He turned enough to give Bruce a kiss. "And I'm sorry for being like this. Especially the drinking. As soon as I realized what I said I hated myself for it. It won't happen again, I promise. I'm not going to be that guy."

 

“I wouldn’t want you to be that guy,” Bruce said, moving back a few inches so Clint could turn around before closing the space between their bodies again. “I would miss you terribly if you turned into someone else.”

 

"I'd miss me if I turned into someone like that. And I'd miss this. A lot." He gave Bruce another kiss. "Bed?"

 

“Bed,” Bruce agreed, tugging at the archer’s belt already.

 

He excitedly awaited Clint’s shooting from that moment on. He vaguely remembered a day when his cage faced the ring and he got to watch Clint’s act in the circus, but it was usually so overshadowed by the horrible sequence of events that usually followed, and he had a hard time remembering how Clint looked in his spandex, or how he shot.

 

He wanted to be there to pick up Clint so they could leave immediately, but he was still too frightened to head to that part of town, so he waited impatiently at the door of their house. As soon as he saw Clint coming up the street he started grinning.

 

Clint came home, as tired and sore as usual but when he saw Bruce's face most of that melted away. He looked so happy and excited and the feeling was infectious. By the time Clint reached the house he was grinning almost as broadly as Bruce was.  
  
"I need to change out of this. Then we can go." Clint said, giving Bruce a quick hug before heading to the bedroom, already stripping off his shirt.

 

Bruce admired Clint from the bedroom door as he stripped, taking inventory of every tight, rippling muscle and tanned expanse of flesh. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his ass, at least three shades paler than the rest of his body. It was so white, Bruce could never resist giving it a few hard smacks when he’s fucking it, just to watch it turn pink.

 

He admired the long muscles of his legs, his bulging shoulders and the ripples of his back, the valleys between his shoulder blades and the hard lines of his hips. It was a sin to put clothes on a form as perfect as Clint’s.

 

Clint turned a little to grab his shirt, a tight white wife beater that gave his arms room to move and flex, and his gaze happened to land on Bruce. He grinned at the way Bruce was looking him over, a slight blush coloring his cheeks.  
  
"Like what you see mister?"  he asked teasingly. "If you'd rather stay in I can always take you out another time. If just this is getting you excited you're going to go crazy watching me shoot."

 

Bruce’s lips curled into a predatory sort of smirk. “I look forward to it.” He licked his lips as he watched Clint pull his tank top over his body, and felt a shiver shoot directly to his cock. “You know, you’re being very rude to children, wearing their clothing. It’s much too small on you anyway.”

 

"Frees up my arms. I can't be restricted. This is tight but doesn't hinder movement. It's perfect. And you love it," he sneered. He pulled on a pair of briefs and his tightest jeans. "Denim isn't my favorite for this kind of thing but it'll do. Hand me my bow and quiver would you?"

 

Bruce not only carried it over, but made a show of running his hands up along Clint’s chest as he slung it over his shoulder, tucking it in place between the younger man’s rangy pectorals. Then he pressed a kiss to the pulse point in his neck, whispered something to the effect of how he couldn’t wait to watch him shoot, and then he sauntered out of the room.

 

Clint pulled on his boots and came out a few minutes later. "Let's go." He said, leading Bruce out the door.  
  
He led him through town, making sure to avoid the routes that ran close to his factory. They got up to his usual place which had turned into quite the shooting range over the time he'd been using it. He still had cans up, along with a few small rings that he had found a way to hang so he could set them swinging and a crudely painted target.  
  
"What do you think?"

 

“This is probably the most ghetto shooting range I’ve ever seen in all my life, and I can’t wait to see you hit everything,” Bruce said honestly, and with a hint of humor in his voice.

 

Clint grinned and stationed Bruce by the door. He started with a few warm up shots, taking careful aim at the target, drawing the string nice and slow. It wasn't so much for him as it was for Bruce. Going slow gave him time to watch and drool over the way his muscles bunched and his veins stood out. His whole body was still for a moment, silence falling around him, as he stood there, taking aim at the bullseye. Then he released and the arrow flew forward, hitting it dead center.  
  
He did a couple more draws, following through faster each time until he was shooting in rapid succession. If he had had more arrows he would have hit center every time, splitting the shaft of the previous arrow. But since he couldn't waste any arrows he amused himself by making a pattern in the bullseye, a heart for Bruce.  
  
He had one last arrow left, the bottom point, when he turned to look at Bruce, smiling wide, the target not even in his periphery, and loosed the arrow.  
  
"It's perfect aim." Clint said, pulling the arrows out of the target and putting them back in his quiver. "I don't miss."   
  
He set one of the rings turning on its string and another swinging back and forth and returned to his place. He spread his legs a little as he took aim at the first, the muscles in his thighs tightening and pressing against the denim. He loosed the arrow and it sailed perfectly through first ring.   
  
Clint turned then, his torso facing Bruce and his arms and legs facing the swinging ring.  
  
"So what do you think?" he asked as that arrow also sailed effortlessly through the metal ring without coming close to the edge.

 

Bruce’s mouth felt dry, and he didn’t even notice Clint had asked him anything at all until he heard the archer clear his throat. He didn’t think he could be so sexually aroused by the simple act of pulling a bowstring. The way Clint’s arms bulged was spectacular, and with every breath he drew in right before releasing the string, a tingling sensation settled in Bruce’s groin.

 

“Oh God, you’re spectacular,” and he didn’t mean for it to sound so close to a moan.

 

"Knew you wouldn't be able to handle it. I've been doing this since I was nine and been getting looks like that since I was fifteen."  Clint smirked, letting his bow hang loosely at his side.  
  
He sauntered up to Bruce and pulled the man close to him, feeling his erection pressing against his thigh. He slung his bow across his shoulders and leaned forward, capturing the other man's mouth in a hungry kiss.

 

Bruce reacted instantly, rolling against Clint’s body with a desperate moan as he was thrown against the nearest wall. He rocked his hips against the younger man’s, wrapping his arms around his shoulders to pull him closer, feeling his rock-solid form against his own willowy body, and he thought he was going to pass out just from the feel of it.

 

Bruce ran his hands down along the man’s bow across his back, moaning into his mouth and thrusting his hips forward as strong as Clint thrust against him, their cocks pressing against one another’s so tightly it felt as though one or both might burst.

 

“I’m going to suck you off,” Bruce suddenly announced, and grabbed Clint by the shirt and flung him around against the wall. He cried out though, arching to avoid any damage to his bow. Bruce muttered a quiet apology as Clint began to shift it so that it was strung across his chest.

 

Bruce fell down to his knees, sliding Clint’s shirt up over his taut belly underneath the metal of the bow, grinding one palm flat against the burgeoning bulge in his jeans as he nipped at the skin directly beneath the younger man’s navel.

 

"Fuck, Bruce." Clint groaned, eyes closed. He arched his body forward to protect his bow and also push his hips closer to Bruce, pressing more insistently against his hand. He was growing impatient. He had gotten hard just from Bruce watching him and now he wanted what he had been promised, foreplay be damned.

 

He looked down expectantly when he felt Bruce’s lips leave his stomach, expecting that he’d be getting on with it.

 

What he was met with instead, was the sight of Bruce running his tongue up along the metal shaft of his bow, making full eye contact upwards, cheeks ablaze and eyes alight with a fog of lust.

 

"Shit..." Clint hissed, feeling a little light headed as all the blood in his body suddenly seemed to race towards his cock, making it throb painfully in his jeans. His knees went weak and his head spun in a surge of lust. He had never seen anything so sexy and when Bruce wrapped his lips briefly around the tip of the bow he thought he might come right then.  
  
He had never thought about it before but his bow was essentially an extension of himself. He'd been handling one since he was nine and had gotten his first of his very own when he was eleven. Learning how to handle it and what felt right and all the changes it came with coincided almost perfectly with his own changes at that time and his bow had always been something he could rely on. With it he could protect himself or others, or use it to garner some much wanted attention. At the same time misusing it and putting on a bad show could bring about physical pain. His bow was a source of so many other emotions, it really shouldn't have been a surprise that he would gain pleasure from it in some way too.  
  
And seeing Bruce's tongue sliding over the gleaming metal was definitely something he enjoyed.

 

Bruce could see Clint’s eyes watering from the tension reeling through him, and decided to be merciful. He popped open the button on his trousers and pulled his briefs down so his cock landed heavy against his cheek. With one kiss to the side, he didn’t hesitate to wrap his lips around the head and sink down several inches right away. He wanted to get Clint squirming, he wanted to feel his body thrum and hear the younger man call his name in that strangled, breathy voice.

 

Clint groaned in appreciation, his hand tangling his Bruce's hair. He wasn't pulling, just using the other man to steady himself so he wouldn't lose himself too soon.   
  
"Please Bruce," he begged. "Please, I'm so fucking close. I need more, please."

 

Bruce couldn’t help but feel a little smug, having Clint so close to release already, and he lifted his other hand to massage his steadily tightening sac through the material of his briefs, while sliding his throat farther over the shaft.

 

Over the years he’d gotten better at cocksucking, and it always helped to hear Clint beg and whisper and moan and praise every single thing he did. He’d never been able to deep throat with incredible ease, but it never stopped him from trying.

 

He swallowed hard over the two thirds of Clint’s cock that were currently jammed down his windpipe, and struggled with the last third, trying to suck him in as deep as he could.

 

"Fuck!" Clint cried, his hips jerking forward. He tried to stop himself, knowing Bruce couldn't take it yet, but holding back was killing him. His body was aflame and the only thing that might help was Bruce's hands and lips and tongue but every time they touched him he only got hotter. "I can't....Bruce I'm so fucking close...God Bruce..." he panted, hips rocking forward incessantly, demanding more.

 

Finally Bruce’s nose was buried in the wiry thatch of hair at the base of Clint’s cock, and he was feeling quite proud of himself for working it this deep. He swallowed again, hard, trying to adjust his throat to the sensation of something massive being wedged down it, and moaned as he felt the organ give a throb in his throat.

 

That moan sent a ripple of sensation up Clint's cock and that was it. He lost all control. His hand tightened in Bruce's hair, holding him still as he thrust into his throat. He couldn't hold back anymore. He held Bruce, ignoring the hands on his legs and thrust fast and hard into his mouth. He fucked his throat, driving himself to his own release.   
  
It didn't take long. A few more harsh thrusts and he was coming, shoved as far down Bruce's throat as he could get. He cried out his lover's name, head thrown back and eyes closed. His body tightened and then shivered as the last of the aftershocks took him. Then his hand loosened in Bruce's hair, letting the man pull away so he could sink down to the floor.

 

Bruce instantly fell into a fit of coughing. He felt like his throat had just been raped by sandpaper, like it was blistering and on fire, and there was a thickness of Clint’s come stuck somewhere between too far down to cough up and too far up to swallow down. He felt something like he was choking, and if it continued for too much longer, he’d probably throw up.

 

And yet, it was one of the hottest things that had ever happened to him. Amidst the choking and hacking, and amidst the red-faced, teary-eyed wheezing, Bruce had been on fire with the sensation of being so thoroughly _fucked_.

 

"Too much for you?"  Clint asked, smirking. If he thought Bruce was genuinely upset he would have started apologizing on the spot but he could see how hard he was and knew they were still alright. "I know I'm big but I thought you could handle it."

 

Bruce looked up, his eyes flashed green, and in that moment Clint knew he was fucked.

 

He rose to his feet carefully, with a face almost a deadpan of emotion, were it not for the dangerous gleam in his eye.

 

“If you hadn’t been such a reckless fucking _slut_ there wouldn’t have been a problem,” he said, his voice even and his tone lusty. He knew all the ways to talk to get Clint weeping with pleasure, he knew exactly what to say to manipulate even his most spent of erections back to hardness.

 

Clint shivered and his cock gave an interested twitch. He loved when Bruce started insulting him, and being called a slut was one of his absolute favorites.  
  
"Maybe I wouldn't be such a slut if you knew how to handle me." he challenged.

 

“On your feet, hands on the wall, and don’t even think about opening that mouth of yours until I say so,” Bruce commanded, giving Clint’s hair a hard tug to get him moving. As soon as he was in position, Bruce hastily stripped him of his bow and his shirt, pulling his jeans down to bunch at his boots so that he was, for all intents and purposes, completely naked.

 

“You don’t think I know how to handle you?” Bruce asked, his tone sharpening. “Please, tell me _more_. Tell me what I’m not doing _right_ , Clint.”

 

"I'm a rebel Bruce." Clint smirked. He could already tell he was going to love this game. Already his cock was starting to perk up. "I need a firm hand. I need someone who can get rough with me and put me in my place."

 

Reaching down between his legs, Bruce’s hand was rapacious in its grip on Clint’s pulsating cock, almost bruising. And without even waiting for the man to cry out, he struck a hand across his bottom hard enough it left a print.

 

The resulting cry was bloodcurdling, and irrationally beautiful.

 

“Is this a _firm enough hand_ for you, Clint?” Bruce sneered, taking hold of the searing hot flesh of Clint’s ass cheek and tugging at it so it spread his ass wide, and he could grind his clothed cock directly against the younger man’s already panicking hole.

 

"That was good." Clint panted. He was fully hard again, that smack making his cock spring back to life. If he had it his way, which he would, Bruce would fuck him so hard he wouldn't be able to sit down for days. "Do you think you can keep it up? Because one smack isn't good enough for a slut like me."

 

“Nothing is ever good enough for a slut like you,” Bruce sneered, giving another hard slap to the already raw cheek, and watching Clint’s entire body tense and jump. “I could ride you up so deep inside that you _bleed_ and it still wouldn’t be enough for your _slutty_ ass.”

 

He could hear the way Clint’s breath would hitch whenever Bruce said that word. It was like Bruce could do no wrong as long as he peppered every other sentence with that one magic word.

 

"Yeah. That's right. You can ride me as long and as hard as you want and I'll still want more." Clint said. He cried out as another slap landed on his already stinging flesh. "It doesn't matter what you do. I'll still beg you for your cock. And you'll give it to me, won't you Bruce?"

 

“I don’t have much of a choice. If I don’t fill up your ass with _my_ cock you’ll go around to every other cock out there looking for someone who can fill you up as right as I can.”

 

They would talk of infidelity in these times. Bruce would comment as though he expected Clint was fucking every man in the city, and Clint would vehemently deny it some times, or insist that Bruce needs to ‘try harder’ to keep him from doing it at other times. But they both knew, unspoken, that the thought of Clint having sex with another man was so out of the realm of possibility, that it opened up their sex talk to bringing up the subject, _because_ it was so preposterous.

 

"I think that's what you want. I think you want to sit there and watch some other guy fuck me like the slut I am."  Clint sneered. He got another slap for that, making him jump and moan like a cheap whore, just like he was supposed to for this particular game.

 

Taking hold of both Clint’s ass cheeks and spreading them wide, Bruce ground his cock so forcefully against his hole that it almost felt like he was going to penetrate him while still fully dressed. The moan it drew out of Clint was sublime, and Bruce gave another, equally hard rut.

 

“I’ve fucked this ass so many times it’s molded to my cock,” Bruce sneered, biting down on Clint’s shoulder as he rutted forward again. “You wouldn’t be able to get off with anyone else.”

 

"So sure of yourself. Maybe I've gotten bored. It's hard to keep me captivated when it's the same thing every day." he pressed, pushing back against Bruce's cock. He was so hot his own cock was weeping, pre-come dripping onto the floor. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take before he lost it all over again.

 

Bruce was done talking.

 

In fact, he wrapped his palm firm around Clint’s mouth, and without a lick of warning he undid his trousers, spit in his hand, pumped his cock twice and pushed inside.

 

Clint’s scream was raw fucked-out bliss, muffled into the older man’s palm. His eyes were rolling back and his knees were buckling and his fingers were curling into fists on the walls. Bruce swatted him hard on the ass to bring him back to reality before he started in at a fast pace, forcing in deep with every sharp rock of his hips.

 

Tears of pleasure and pain dripped down Clint's face. The stretch and raw friction of Bruce's cock thrusting into him without any preparation hurt and made him want to scream. But he had taken Bruce so many times that his body knew just how to accommodate him and Bruce knew exactly what angle to pound into him at to make it pleasurable and it felt so good he wanted to scream for that too.  
  
So he screamed for them both, the pleasure and the pain. He didn't hold back as Bruce fucked him so hard it felt like he was going to split him in half. He moaned and swore and cried out Bruce's name, letting the man's hand muffle the sound enough to keep anyone from hearing them.

 

“Do you remember yet?” Bruce hissed, bringing a hand down hard against the younger man’s ass. “Do you remember how your sweet ass belongs to my cock yet?” He took Clint by the shoulders to brace him as he kicked up the pace, pounding into him so fast the younger man couldn’t even breathe properly. “Remember all the times I fucked you brainless and boneless?”

 

"Y-yes." Clint sobbed. He rocked his hips back to meet Bruce's, trying to take the man deeper. His knees were barely holding him up and he was just a few good smacks away from completely losing his mind. "I love your cock. It's perfect. God. Bruce, _more."_

“More? Such a greedy slut.”

 

Bruce suddenly pulled out of Clint entirely, just to hear him sob, and then pushed him around until his back was against the wall. Wrapping his arms around the younger man’s hips he hoisted him up a few inches. Clint’s legs wrapped around his waist instantly, they lined up, and Bruce was pounding up into his lover again within seconds.

 

And then without hesitation, Bruce hooked the first two fingers of his right hand into Clint’s hole, stretching it just that much wider as he slammed into him.

 

Clint screamed, his eyes closing tight and his head falling back against the wall. He gripped Bruce's shoulders hard enough to bruise. He tried to move his hips but it was useless. All he could do was hold on while Bruce fucked him fast and hard, just like he liked it. He had never felt so full or so thoroughly stretched and it was driving him insane.

 

Bruce wrung another climax out of his lover in just a few thrusts. He, however, was so worked up that he wasn’t even close. So he turned Clint sideways, put one of his feet on the ground with one stretched up over his shoulder and proceeded to fuck him that way.

 

They must have changed positions three more times – Clint worked up to another climax himself – before Bruce finally came. They collapsed against each other on the wall, breathing each others air their faces were pressed so close, and they kissed languidly until they finally felt capable of movement again.

 

Bruce picked up his lover on his back, seeing as his legs weren’t working right, and carried him home. He put the exhausted archer to bed, thoroughly pleased with himself. Clint couldn’t possibly ever think negatively of archery again after _that_.

 

He petted the younger man’s hair until he fell asleep, before curling under the blankets himself.


	11. Chapter 11

Clint woke up the next morning, sore and tired but impossibly happy. He turned over to find Bruce still lying beside him and grinned. A few quick kisses had his lover stirring beside him. He snuggled a little closer and returned Bruce's sleepy smile.  
  
"You are amazing." he said, kissing his cheek again. "I have never been that thoroughly fucked. If this is how you're going to react every time you see me shoot I'll need to bring you along more often."

 

“I don’t know how many more times I could handle another tryst like that,” Bruce grunted sorely. His back was singing with pain, scolding him for such a sudden workout last night, but he certainly believed it to be worth it.

 

"Old man." Clint teased. He tried to sit up but his body protested and he fell back onto the bed. "How about we just stay in bed all day? I'll call someone to cover for me and we can just not move for a while."

 

“You are a lazy child,” Bruce said lovingly, nipping at the archer’s earlobe. “I’m not missing work because of a hard fuck. I barely move all day anyway, I’ll even put a pillow in my chair. Don’t exert yourself though, you’ve got a physically exhausting job. If you stay home I’ll come over at lunch time and rub oil into your back, how’s that sound?” his voice was low and he peppered the younger man’s jaw with gentle kisses, feeling his muscles relax and listening to him hum in deliberation.

 

"You think you'll be able to leave again after having your hands all over my body?" Clint purred. He wanted to stay in bed but he knew he should get up and go to work. There was no shortage of replacements ready if they decided to fire him. And they couldn't afford for him to lose his job. Bruce was a respected and well loved member of the community but most of their income still came from Clint.  
  
With a good bit of grumbling he forced himself to sit up and ran a hand over his face. "How about this, I go to work and let that factory drive me into the ground and then when I come home you can give me a good hard rub down to work out the tension."

 

“In the shower,” Bruce agreed, kissing the tip of Clint’s nose as he began to change his shirt. “We’ll make a night of it. I’ll even find a good station on the radio.”

 

He offered the younger man a beguiling smile as he shrugged off yesterday’s clothes. He’d become so comfortable around Clint, undressing had become like breathing. It was like the highest form of trust and respect, because stripping down to his flesh was a powerful level of vulnerability – not to mention that’s the highest potential for the Hulk to be let loose, since Bruce is so susceptible and not even a shred of cloth would be destroyed in the transformation process. It was like putting the fate of the city in Clint’s hands by Bruce taking his clothes off, and Clint liked it.

 

Clint smiled and stood, helping Bruce out of his shirt and neatly folding it for him and adding it to their very orderly laundry pile. He smiled and gave Bruce a kiss before turning to pull off his own soiled clothes, revealing each new bruise and hickey for Bruce's inspection.

 

Bruce wrinkled his nose as he ran his hands gently down Clint’s back. “Was I really this rough on you?” he whispered. He could see the bruise where Clint’s back was pressed into the wall while Bruce pounded him, and he could see slight bruises on his inner thighs where he took the pounding so harshly. There were bruises on his neck and shoulders, even on his forearms.

 

"Don't worry about it." Clint shrugged. Sure he was sore and a little achy and his legs didn't want to move but in his mind it was more than worth it. And he didn't like to see Bruce so worried. He turned and wrapped his arms Bruce and gave him a kiss. "I like a little pain Bruce. And a few reminders after a long, hard fucking are good. They keep me relaxed."

 

Bruce loved the feeling of Clint’s strong arms wrapped around him, and he gave a forced little grunt to let him know he still wasn’t happy, but that he’d let it go this once.

 

“Don’t be late to work now,” Bruce scolded with a smile when Clint began to kiss his jaw, moving towards his neck.

 

"Whatever you say babe." Clint laughed, letting him go. He tugged on some clothes and made sandwiches for lunch, one for himself and one for Bruce. Then he gave Bruce a quick kiss goodbye and set out for the factory.   
  
The next few days were like that. Clint felt more relaxed than he had in a while and he could tell Bruce was happier too. They got up together most mornings and ate together every night like they had before their fight. It was simple and domestic and routine but they both loved it. The bruises on his body started to fade Clint started going out again with his bow and whenever he came back Bruce would rub him down. Then he'd thank him with a kiss and they'd fall into bed together.

 

Bruce’s favorite thing in the weeks that followed was seeing Clint rise back into himself with his bow in hand. He was rediscovering a part of himself that he’d tried to forget, tried to pretend it didn’t exist because he was sure it was too dangerous.

 

When Clint would take his bow in his hand, his face would glow and he would exude an aura of happiness that would lift Bruce’s spirits. But as soon as he was out the door, once Bruce was sure Clint couldn’t see him, he would fall.

 

It reminded him too strongly of himself. He felt like a hypocrite, pushing Clint back into something that he’d deemed too dangerous. There was a very obvious part of Bruce that he always kept hidden away, secret and caged because of the dangers that arose if he accepted that half of himself. He knew Clint drew similarities between their situations, he could see it in the way Clint would watch him do the dishes, he could feel it in the way Clint would gently brush his hair with his fingers while he read a book in bed. He never said anything, but he knew Clint knew it as strongly as he did.

 

Clint couldn't pretend he hadn't hoped Bruce would take his own advice and start being a little more comfortable with himself. He had been so convinced that Clint needed his bow, despite how dangerous he was with it, but he refused to accept the Hulk as a part of himself. Clint watched him, never saying anything, looking for any sign that he was willing to relax the tight leash he had on himself but nothing ever changed.

 

Bruce didn’t like the way Clint was watching him. It was like Clint was waiting for something, and he didn’t know if he was prepared to do whatever the archer was looking for. It would help if he knew what it was.

 

So he pretended he didn’t notice. He acted like nothing was out of the ordinary, going about his routine, rubbing Clint down when he came home from shooting his bow, asking him how it went and listening to him rant emphatically about everything he managed to hit.

 

One night Clint got tired of waiting. He had never been particularly patient unless he was on a job and waiting for Bruce to do anything was like waiting for a glacier to move. It was slow and boring.  
  
So one night he came home from shooting and took up his usual place on the bed, laying on his stomach so Bruce could rub his back. He had this carefully planned out. He didn't want to corner Bruce or make it seem like he was interrogating him. So he chose a moment when he was as vulnerable as possible in hopes of making Bruce more comfortable and keeping him from running away. This was just going to be a friendly chat after all.  
  
"Bruce?" he asked, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen over them. "What's it like, being inside the Hulk's head? You've told me about him being in yours but you've never told me what it's like when the big guy is in control."

 

It was amazing how quickly Bruce’s mood could drop. His hands stilled on Clint’s shoulders and he took a carefully measured breath in through his nose before blowing it out through his lips.

 

“It’s torture,” he said finally, and his thumbs continued in circles around Clint’s shoulderblades. “It’s like I’m being consumed with anger and forced into a horrible, dark corner. It’s like the Hulk does everything he can to try and make me forget that I’m human. Because if I forget that I’m human, then I won’t ever try to come out again, and he can be free to run and hurt and destroy and kill everything as long as he pleases. Until someone comes along and finally figures out a way to kill him.”

 

"He wasn't like that with me." Clint said, thinking back to the sad, almost scared Hulk he had met. There had been anger there, sure. But it hadn't been the kind of mindless destruction Bruce was talking about. It was focused on the people who had hurt him. The guy had _pouted_ for Christ's sake.

 

“Well, then, you’re special. But he’s like that with everyone else.” Bruce’s tone was clipped, and he hoped that Clint would get the message that he didn’t like talking about this.

 

"There's something you're not telling me." Clint sighed, turning his head to try to look at Bruce out of the corner of his eyes. "What did he do that made you hate him so much?"

 

Bruce froze again, and his expression was caught between anger and a deep, hurting sorrow. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he suddenly snapped, and pulled his hands away entirely.

 

"Please Bruce." Clint said, reaching back to grab the man's wrist. "I want to understand and you're not telling me anything. You hate the Hulk but all I've seen of him is a sweet, lumbering oaf who's scared of everyone he meets. I want to know what happened."

 

“He killed Betty.”

 

Bruce’s tone was hard as he looked down at his hand where Clint held him, but didn’t make a move further away or closer. Bruce knew Clint didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t really want to elaborate. His whole body ached suddenly and he felt tired and his eyes burned, and he wanted to leave the room very badly.

 

Clint shifted and Bruce moved enough or him to sit up. He released Bruce's wrist only to take his hand, watching him carefully. "She was important to you?" he asked quietly.

 

“I was in love with her,” Bruce answered, equally quietly.

 

Clint sighed and laid down, pulling Bruce with him and wrapping his arms around the other man. He didn't squeeze or even fully close the space between them. He just held him, letting him know that he was there with him and was willing to do whatever he could to help Bruce.  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't know," he said sadly. "We don't have to talk about it anymore."

 

“I don’t understand your fascination with him anyway,” Bruce muttered, not looking up at Clint but using his bicep as a pillow nevertheless. “If a dog is vicious and attacks and kills other dogs, it doesn’t matter if he’s loyal to his owner, he’s euthanized. The same principle applies here.”

 

"A dog only bites if you beat it." Clint replied. "He doesn't attack indiscriminately, as far as I've seen. I feel bad for him."

 

Bruce suddenly sat up, looking at Clint as though he were disgusted by him. “You’ve only ever met him – what – twice? And you’re judging his whole character based on the fact that you talked him back into his cage? He’s got some sort of feelings for you, but don’t pretend for one second that you know him better than I do. Given the chance he will lay waste to every thing he can get his hands on. And if he were rampaging, I honestly doubt even you would be able to stop him.”

 

"Okay, okay." Clint said, shrinking back. He barely managed to keep his arms down instead of pulled in close to protect him from the blow he was afraid was only a few harsh words away. He had never seen Bruce this angry at him before and he didn't like it one bit. "I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."

 

Bruce sighed and rubbed his eyes with both hands. “I’m taking a walk,” he said suddenly, standing up and leaving the room before Clint could argue.

 

Clint wanted to run after him but he didn't. Bruce wanted to be alone and that was fine. He waited until the door closed before going into the kitchen to make some food for them. He wasn't hungry but he didn't know when Bruce was going to be back or if he would want dinner. He made sandwiches and wrapped Bruce's plate, leaving it on the table for him with the light on before going back to the bedroom. He stayed off the mattress, instead using his blanket to make a little nest for himself on the floor to wait.

 

Bruce didn’t come back that night.

Clint went through stages.

 

First he was panicked. What if Bruce was hurt somewhere? Or what if he was lost? But he couldn’t go looking for him and risk being gone when he got back.

Then he was angry. Bruce was gone all night, probably not eating, definitely not sleeping, and worrying Clint to death!

Then he was sad. What if Bruce wasn’t coming back?

Then he was guilty. He shouldn’t have pushed Bruce, it wasn’t his business.

And then finally, he was resigned. The sun was coming up, he hadn’t slept a wink, and Bruce still hadn’t come back.

 

Clint was just getting ready for work, stretching out his tired muscles when Bruce suddenly came walking down the street, where early-birds were thronging. He passed the house entirely and slipped directly into his office, looking very weary but somehow relaxed. He didn’t even make eye contact with Clint from where he stood near the front window.

 

Clint went to work that day and when he came home he grabbed his bow and left without saying anything. He'd messed up. He knew he'd messed up. He just didn't know how to fix it.   
  
He stayed on his makeshift range until his fingers were bloody and he couldn't move his arms if he wanted to before slinking back home, praying he would find Bruce there instead of an empty house.

 

Bruce was sitting there at the kitchen table, reading a book when Clint walked into the house at almost midnight. He kept reading for a few moments until he came to a stopping point and dog-eared the page, and closed the book.

 

“I certainly hope you’re not avoiding me,” he said calmly, removing his glasses and tucking them into his pocket. “I don’t want to have caused a problem for us.”

 

"You didn't come back last night." Clint said wearily, tossing his bow aside and practically crawling over to Bruce. He pulled a chair around beside him and fell into it, hanging his head. "I thought you were gonna leave. I didn't want to come back and see you packing." He looked up at Bruce and leaned close to wrap his arms around him. "I'm sorry about what I said. It was stupid. I don't know anything and I didn't mean to make you angry."

 

Bruce stiffened. Clint really thought he was going to leave because of that? It hurt to think that Clint thought so little of him, but he didn’t want to start another argument, and kept it to himself.

 

He was about to say something when Clint noticed there was a very distinct smell of cigarettes lingering on the older man. And it took less than a second for him to locate an opened box sitting in his jacket pocket. Bruce looked somewhat guilty as the archer retrieved it and held it up for him to see.

 

“I’m an adult, I can legally buy cigarettes if I want to,” he muttered, looking away.

 

"I hate cigarettes." Clint said, staring at the open box. They were different from the ones Barney used to smoke but the smell was the same and it made him desperate for fresh air. "They smell and the smoke stings my eyes and they leave nasty burns. And they're crap for you. You're a doctor you should know that."

 

“You think I don’t know they’re bad for me?” Bruce muttered again, but didn’t make a grab for the box. “I was freaking out last night. I needed something to calm me down. Alcohol and other substances are disorienting. Cigarettes is all I could think of – and it worked.”

 

"Next time just yell at me or hit me or something. You don't need to poison yourself to calm down." Clint said, glaring at the package like it had personally offended him. "I don't want to have cigarettes around here. You get addicted and then you need cash and everything just goes down hill from there."

 

“Why do you always say that?” Bruce asked, looking at Clint with furrowed brows. “Why do you always tell me to hit you? I’m not going to hit you, Clint, and it’s appalling that you think I even would.”

 

Clint shrugged. "It helps. When you need to calm down sometimes taking a swing at someone is exactly what you need. Barney hit me when he got angry. So did the Swordsman and everyone else. I can take a hit Bruce, it's no big deal. And it's not like you can do any real damage."

 

“I’m not going to beat you just because you’re used to it, Clint,” Bruce shook his head with a disappointed sort of sigh. “It develops into a pattern. And I’m not going to be abusive, no matter how good it could make me feel. Besides, getting into a physical fight isn’t… healthy. The risk of turning is too high.”

 

"Fine." Clint said. He stood and walked over to the trash and threw in the box of cigarettes. "But no cigarettes. Learn yoga or something. You're not going to start taking my money to give yourself cancer."

 

Bruce sighed longingly after the box, but let it go. Clint gave up drinking for him, he could go without smoking.

 

Standing up, he paced over to Clint and stood directly behind him. He watched Clint bristle, but he didn’t move. Bruce waited, took his time, let Clint move first. Eventually, he turned around. Bruce snatched him up in an instant, held him close, pressed his face to Clint’s shoulder, and just breathed.

 

Clint wrapped his arms around him, letting the anger melt out of him. "I'm sorry Bruce. I don't want to fight with you."

 

“I don’t like fighting with you,” Bruce muttered, closing his eyes and breathing in Clint’s scent. “I’m sorry I stormed out. I’m sorry I bought cigarettes. I’m sorry…”

 

His fingers were almost claw-like with the vice they held on Clint’s shoulder blades, and they were pressed so tightly together there wasn’t even room to breathe properly.  When he spoke again, his words were a tired whisper. “I’m sorry I’m so dysfunctional.”

 

"It's not just you." Clint replied softly. He let out a weary sigh and gripped Bruce tighter. "I'm fucked up too. That's what we are. Two fucked up people who care about each other. If you weren't dysfunctional you'd never put with me. And if I weren't dysfunctional I'd have been running for the hills long ago."

 

Bruce pulled back and cupped Clint’s face, kissed him until they were close to tears, held his breath, kissed him again. Slow and sweet and gentle.

 

 _I think I’m in love with you, Clint_.

 

He’d never say it out loud.

 

“Let’s be dysfunctional together then,” he muttered, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Clint’s.

 

"As long as we can." Clint replied because that was the closest to saying forever as he could get. Forever was a hard thing to think about. He thought he wanted Bruce forever, was almost sure of it, but he couldn't ask for that. If he did and Bruce said no it might mean the end of everything for them.

 

Bruce was afraid of forever, too. He tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but he knew forever was a frightening, big thing. He wanted nothing more than to have Clint forever, but he didn’t want to make any promises he couldn’t keep.

 

He wanted to tell Clint he loved him. He tried several times over the next few weeks, but never got it out. He tasted the words on his tongue, felt them in his chest, curled up tight and ready to burst. He wanted so badly to let Clint know.

 

But he didn’t want him to feel obligated to do anything. Love was a strong commitment, and even if Clint didn’t feel the same, he was a good enough man that he would stay faithful long after he stopped _wanting_ Bruce. Because he cared about the doctor, and he didn’t want him to be upset. That much was brutally, painfully clear.

 

So he kept it to himself, and tried to show it instead. He would go out with Clint once a week to watch him shoot, and they would fuck hard and fast on the range and carry one another home in fits of giggles. He would stand behind Clint and watch him cook, arms around his waist and chin on his shoulder. He would listen to Clint explain everything as he went, but he supposed it was just like when he explained his doctoring methods to Clint. He listened fondly, but it all went in one ear and out the other.

 

He continued to rub Clint down with oil every night. He would take his time, and map every single curve and slope of his muscles, count and trace every scar that roughly bisects his flesh.

 

Clint loved those weeks. Almost everything seemed right. He cared for Bruce, more strongly than ever, and he almost let himself believe that nothing could ever come between them. He'd lay there, while Bruce rubbed oil into his skin, and imagined his flesh absorbing the feel of Bruce's fingers with the oil that softened his skin and soothed his muscles. He'd lay awake at night after, tracing the scars on Bruce's body, committing each to memory.  
  
Only one thing ruined those days and that was the increasing feeling of foreboding. Clint kept it from Bruce, not wanting him to worry, but he had spent enough time on the streets to know what it felt like when someone was following you. He had yet to actually see anyone but he was sure they were there.

 

He was concerned for Bruce, afraid that he would be hurt. But the people looking for him weren’t looking for Bruce. He was on edge constantly. And Bruce could tell. He knew that Bruce could tell, too.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Clint was jumpy in those days. He would flinch every time Bruce came in the door, and look out the windows every few seconds. He bought curtains and kept them closed constantly, and he’d never be too far from Bruce. He started coming home from work early most days, and he would always look so relieved when he would walk in the door and see Bruce. He would visit him in the clinic if he wasn’t home by the time Clint got there, sit on a stool and watch him and talk to him and quietly love him.

 

Three weeks, and he thought maybe he was just being paranoid.

But then one day he came home, and Bruce wasn’t there. He also wasn’t in the clinic. In fact, the clinic was completely empty except for one little girl, sitting off in the corner on a cot, hiding her knees in her chest and her face between them. When he asked her what happened, she told him that Bruce stood up and left with three men dressed all in black.

 

“They asked him to leave or something bad was happen. He said he’d go with them if they promised the bad thing wouldn’t happen.” She said quietly. “I don’t think they knew I was here…”

 

Clint's blood turned to ice, then, just as quickly – he was on fire. Rage bubbled through him, and if he wasn't so well trained he would have been shaking. But he had learned long ago to always be steady, no matter how angry or hurt or scared he was.  
  
He thanked the little girl and asked her which direction they went. He noted where she pointed as he ran out of the building, back to their tiny shack. He grabbed his weapons and with that took off down the street after them.

 

They were nowhere in sight, but it was pretty easy for him to ask anyone if they saw a group of four men – three of them in black and one of them the most well-known man in the city.

 

He eventually tracked them down to a hotel. He almost wasn’t allowed inside, but with some bribing, lying and desperate pleading, he was allowed in to the lobby without a room reservation. From there it was easy to slip into an elevator. It wasn’t hard to find their room either, and before long he was on his knees in front of the door, trying to pick the lock as silently as possible.

 

But then, it swung open. And Clint’s eyes were crotch-level with the man from the circus all those years ago – the man who was trying to track him down.

 

“Come in, Barton,” he said, pleasantly enough. “Your friend is already here.”

 

He ushered the young man in with a hard shove to his shoulder. The room was brimming with men belonging to the organization that was trying to kill him. And, in the middle of it all, Bruce. Lying, unconscious, on a bed, with a knife to his throat.

 

Clint did a quick mental checklist as he scanned Bruce's body. No broken bones, still breathing, not even any blood. And he hadn't Hulked out so they hadn't hurt him much at all. He might be bruised but if he was Clint couldn't see it. They had probably just tranquilized him when they got to the hotel and kept him under until Clint had arrived.  
  
He turned to the leader, keeping his expression neutral. "Alright, I'm here. You got what you want. And if you let him walk out of here unharmed I won't even fight you."

“Mh, no, see,” the leader’s voice was even as he took a very large knife from one of his men and held it out to Clint, handle-first. “If you want him coming out of this alive, you’re going to stab yourself in the chest with this knife, just like you did to my brother. You do that, Doctor Banner here wakes up in his bed back in his delightful little shanty town, and you will eventually fade into a distant memory in the back of his head. Or, you can take that knife and do away with me, but know that my men will slit his throat faster than you can even raise that blade.”

"I shot your brother in the stomach. Not the chest." Clint snarled, taking the knife. If was cold and felt all wrong in his hands. It was poorly made, with no balance to it. Nothing like the throwing knives he had been taught to use in the circus. If he wanted to throw it and kill the guy threatening Bruce he probably could, but there was no way to know what would happen to him and to Bruce if he did. "And if you want me to stab myself in the stomach fine, I'll do it. But at least let me say good bye."

 

“No, you’re going to do this on our terms.” The boss was deadly serious, and his word was final. He clasped his hands in front of him with a sickening little smile. “You’re going to do it my way, or you’re not going to do it at all.”

 

The knife was pressed a little tighter to Bruce’s throat, and the smallest sliver of blood trickled down the side of his neck.

 

“And that’s not good for _his_ health.”

 

"Fine!" Clint said, checking himself before he took a step forward and got Bruce killed. "Whatever you want. Just don't hurt him. He has nothing to do with any of this."

 

“Of course.”

 

All eyes were focused on Clint, except for the two men standing over Bruce, holding him down and holding the knife to his throat. He seemed restless, Clint could see his eyes moving beneath closed eyelids. But there wasn’t a trace of green. There wasn’t any chance he’d Hulk out and save them.

 

Clint twirled the knife in his fingers. He couldn't let them hurt Bruce. He would never let anyone hurt Bruce. Not if he could help it.   
  
And honestly, this was sort of what he had expected would happen to him. It was no better than he deserved. He'd lived a bad life. He'd broken rules and people, killed more than a few and left a lot behind. Deep down he didn't even regret it. Not like Bruce. Bruce felt for every person he hurt. Clint just blocked them out. He didn't like it most of the time but he rarely lost sleep over it. He was a bad person and he deserved this sort of ending.   
  
He looked at Bruce, the best thing that had happened to him probably ever. Bruce deserved better. He wouldn't think so but he did. But still it was nice to have him for a while.  
  
 _I guess this is kind of like forever._ He thought as he closed his eyes and raised the knife to his stomach.

 

_BANG_

Thud.

 

Eyes snapped open just in time to see blood spilling out around a gunshot wound in the boss’s head. The men all around the room flew into a panic, and the knife was drawn across Bruce’s throat in an attempt to escape as bodies continued to drop from bullets through the window. Bruce woke up in a fit of pain, cupping his hand to his bleeding throat. It wasn’t deep enough to kill him – just yet.

 

Suddenly the door burst open and several people in all black came barging into the room, shooting everyone else dead in seconds. Clint was the only one standing, with Bruce hacking on the bed. A few man rushed over to him and unzipped a first aid kit, and immediately set to work on his wound.

 

Amongst all the shouting, and doors down the hall opening and curious cries, a young woman in a jet black cat suit walked up with it zipped smartly up to her collar bone. She had a sharp face and jet black hair, and Clint recognized her instantly.

 

"Ophelia?" He asked, his arms falling in surprise. The knife slipped from his fingers but he didn't notice. He was too in shock to notice. She was definitely the college student he had met three years earlier but she looked...different. Not just in the face but in her expression and the sudden sharpness in her eyes. She looked tense and commanding and a little intimidating, even to him.

 

“My name is Hill. Maria Hill.” Her voice was sharper than before, as well. “We’ve been watching you. Tracking you. We need you, Mr. Barton.”

 

She walked up to him and held out a card, which read _Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division_ , and also had a phone number and a symbol that resembled something like an eagle.

 

“Your country needs you.”

 

"What the hell could you want me for?" He asked, staring at the card and the much too long name he could barely understand. What he did get, sounded official. Like government or army based and that really wasn't his scene.

 

“Your skills are unparalleled.” Maria said, standing with her feet shoulder-width apart and her hands clasped behind her back, her chin held strong. “We’ve never had an archer before, even our snipers eyes aren’t as keen as yours. We need someone like you.”

 

"I'm a gun for hire. Last I checked that wasn't really the makings of a good soldier." Clint replied. "What would you have me doing, exactly?"

 

“Exactly what you’ve been doing up until now,” Maria said. “But for a more noble cause. You won’t be sent off on frivolous revenge missions and wild goose chases. You’d be helping the government, and ultimately, the planet.”

 

That made him think. A chance to do something good with his skills, to be someone worth something. It was what he had always wanted. He wouldn't be some nameless mercenary anymore. He could do something to help people and take out bad guys for a good reason, not just to keep food in his stomach. It sounded perfect.  
  
Then he looked at Bruce.   
  
Bruce would never agree to this. He wouldn't want to move back to America and he certainly wouldn't want to be involved with some military agency that would send him off to a lab to be poked and prodded and practically dissected to get what they wanted. And he wouldn't leave Bruce.  
  
"Thanks but no thanks. I've got a life here," he said a little reluctantly and handed back the card.

 

“Keep it,” she shook her head, and didn’t take it from his outstretched hand. “Think about it.”

 

Bruce was already stitched and breathing a little easier, and desperately trying to keep his breathing and pain levels down. The stitches would pop if he Hulked out now.

 

“We could use you, too, Dr. Banner,” She said, looking over at him.

 

“Mh, no,” he said thickly, and a little tiredly. “Not interested in going anywhere with the military, or the government, or whoever you people are. I don’t want to go back in a cage.”

 

Maria nodded her head. “Very well. We’ll back off for a little while. You’ll never be completely off our radar though, so… don’t do anything stupid.”

 

She gave them something that _might_ have been a smile, and backed out of the room. The rest of the men followed her quickly, marching down the hall.

 

“Oh,” she paused at the doorway and looked over the scene. “We’ve corrupted the video cameras and bribed the staff into silence – but you two might want to get out of here before the police show up. I’d say you have about… two minutes. Be safe.” She nodded her head and closed the door, and then the two of them were in silence.

 

Clint ran to the bed and dropped to his knees in front of Bruce, wrapping his arms around the man's waist and holding him tight. He leaned his head against Bruce's thigh, loving the warmth of him against his cheek.  
  
"I'm so sorry Bruce. So, so sorry." he said through slow, shuddering breaths.

 

Bruce threaded both of his hands through Clint’s hair. His fingers were shaking.

 

“I was scared,” he murmured, staring at the wall. “And I’m sure you’re feeling guilty, but let’s take time for that later – after we’re safe. Hm?” he lifted Clint’s head and looked him in the eye.

 

"Safe. I thought we were safe before." Clint said, meeting Bruce's eyes and holding him a little tighter. Now that they were alone and the crisis had been averted all the fear he'd felt came flooding back. It didn't make sense because Bruce was right, they were safe now, but he couldn't stop shaking.

 

Bruce’s expression hardened. “I mean let’s get the hell out of dodge. The police are converging on this spot, and it’d be best if we’re not found here. Let’s get home… and then you can tell me all about why you didn’t let me know people were following you _trying to kill you_.” He peeled Clint’s arms off his waist and stood, feeling a little wobbly, but stayed upright nonetheless.

 

Clint nodded and let Bruce pull him to his feet and followed him out the door, legs moving on autopilot. They made it out of the building before the police got there but not by much. Bruce led them away from the hotel, down the street back towards their home.

 

As soon as they were back in their home, Bruce slumped wearily at the table, holding his head up in his hands as he counted his breaths. Almost a full four minutes passed, and Clint still hadn’t sat at his usual spot.

 

“Well?” Bruce asked, lifting his head to look at Clint.

 

"I thought they wouldn't be a problem anymore. It's been three years and we're on a different continent." Clint explained. "I thought they would give up and move on. I'm not a big target. It was just a silly revenge mission. I never thought they'd waste the resources it must have taken to track me down."

 

“You thought, you thought, you thought,” Bruce groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Were you trying to protect me, Clint? Did you think I’d think less of you if I knew there were people out there wanting to kill you? Or did it just honestly never cross your mind to bring it up?!” his eyes were bright green the next time he looked up, focused directly at Clint.

 

"You knew people wanted me dead." Clint answered. "The Hulk was there when they took me away the first time. And when we ran away I wanted to forget it. We were starting over. That stuff shouldn't have mattered. I didn't mean to put you in danger."

 

“I didn’t know,” Bruce shook his head, standing up and spreading his fingers over the table top. “I don’t know everything that happens when I’m locked up in his head, it’s not as though I’m 100% conscious. I’m a little bit busy being _tormented_ when he’s let out – I didn’t know _anything_ about this. You didn’t just put me in danger, you put _everyone_ in danger by not saying anything – if I’d Hulked out, I would have torn that hotel _apart!_ ”

 

"How was I supposed to know they'd come after me?" Clint asked, loudly now, his voice getting harder. "And if I told you what would you have done? Can you honestly tell me that it wouldn't have changed anything? If I had sat you down one day and told you I shot two arrows into a guys stomach and his brother was pissed as hell and wanted me dead, do you really think you wouldn't have thought any differently of me?"

 

“I already _knew_ that you killed people, Clint!” Bruce tightened his hands into fists, but kept them on the table. “Details don’t matter – I wouldn’t have thought anything of it! If I had a problem with the blood on your hands I would have walked out years ago! If you had told me that there could be men out there looking for you, then I could have done something when I saw three men come walking down the street wearing all black – I could have done something to _prevent_ what happened here tonight!”

 

"What could you have done? Even if you had known they would have come for you and all you could have done is run. And then they would have shot you and you would have hulked out and none of it would have mattered because we'd be in the same place we are now, only you'd be bleeding and you wouldn't look at me for weeks because it would be my fault." Clint said in a rush, his face turning red with anger and lack of oxygen as he forced the words out.

 

Bruce’s eyes flashed a little brighter.

 

“You’re making a lot of assumptions, Clint.” His voice was hard and his eyes were steely and he didn’t break eye contact with the archer. “You don’t have the right to assume these things. I keep a gun in my clinic – I would have killed them before I let them put the city in danger. If I hadn’t already been panicking by the time they barged into the shop I wouldn’t have needed to come with them quietly to avoid a Hulkout. You’ve spent so much our years together assuming that I’ll say one thing or do one thing – you’ve been so afraid that I would kick you out or leave you that you’ve never even given me a chance to prove you wrong.”

 

Clint looked away. The guilt felt like a physical weight pressing him down into the floor. He wanted to disappear. To just curl up and not be anything anymore. He'd treated Bruce badly and he had no way of making up for that.  
  
"I'm sorry."

 

Bruce sighed and looked in the other direction. His throat felt raw and his body felt sore and heavy, and he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep for the next forty years.

 

“They’re dead now, we’re safe. Unless there’s someone else hunting for your head you haven’t told me about.” He said wearily, falling back into his chair.

 

Clint shrugged. He took a few steps closer and leaned against his chair. "I pissed off a lot of people. I don't know how many of them want me dead or would bother looking. But they're the only ones who have ever attacked me."

 

Bruce ran his hands over his face again.

 

“I’ve got… preparations to make. I want you to leave for tonight. Just… just for tonight. Give me some peace, some breathing room… and then come back at sunrise.” He murmured. He couldn’t even bear to look up, he knew Clint would be heart broken. Even being sent away for just one night would seem like a step in the wrong direction for the both of them, but he honestly couldn’t handle looking at him at all for the rest of the night, if he had any chance of remaining calm.

 

"Y-yeah. I can do that." Clint said, adjusting his quiver. He had fucked up. Fucked up big. His hands were already twitching for his bow, ready to take out his anger with a few punishing hours on the range. "I'll come back after work though. I'll be late otherwise."  
  
He didn't give Bruce a chance to argue. He grabbed his bow and practically ran out the door, making his way to the range. And if he didn't sleep that night, Bruce never had to know.


	13. The End

The next day was more exhausting than the rest of Clint’s life combined. He shot himself raw on the range, without a thing in mind – until the sun came up, that is. And he realized that he had to be at work.

 

Which only served to exhaust him more. Work was always tough, but work was even tougher when he didn’t sleep at all the previous night. His fingers, bloodied and tired, slipped more than once. His eyes were glazed and closed on their own a few times. He didn’t even hear his overbearing boss until he was a few feet away, at which point there was no excuse for why he wasn’t responding.

 

“Clint!” a shove to the shoulder – that got his attention. “I’m sick of you slacking off! You’ve obviously got some real issues in your day to day life if you come to work every single day looking like the ass-end of a mule!”

 

“M-sorry sir, I…”

 

“No excuses! You’re _fired!_ That should give you _plenty_ of time to deal with whatever is eating up all your attention every goddamn day!”

 

The other factory workers were dead silent as Clint watched the man walk away. 

 

Clint silently gathered his things and left the factory. He wandered for a while, terrified to go home. Bruce would be furious. His job kept them going when Bruce's clinic couldn't. He had failed again and Bruce was going to be pissed. He'd kicked him out for one night and now he had nothing to contribute anymore.  
  
He stayed out until after sundown before coming back to their tiny shack. He braced himself, taking a deep breath, before pushing open the door.

 

“Clint!” Bruce’s head snapped up and he had a wide grin on his face. He was on his laptop at the table, which almost never left the clinic. “I’ve got great news!” he jumped out of his chair and rushed over to the younger man – it seemed like he’d forgotten everything that happened the previous day. “I’ve just been speaking to a man all day who says he’s got an idea for a _cure_ for my affliction. He’s sent the formula – I looked it over – and I think it’ll work!”

 

"What _affliction_?" Clint asked, brows furrowed in confusion. He had no idea what Bruce could be talking about. Bruce wasn't sick. There was nothing wrong with him that needed to be cured.

 

Bruce looked at Clint like he was insane for a moment before continuing. “The… the Other Guy. The Monster. The Hulk,” he rattled off every name they’d ever used for him. “You know, rampaging green beast.”

 

Clint shook his head. "He isn't an affliction. You make him sound like cancer or something. He's a defense mechanism. What would curing you do? Kill him?"  
  
That thought terrified him. Clint loved the Hulk as much as he loved Bruce. He didn't think he could stand to lose him. And without him Bruce would be perfect. He would be smart and funny and handsome, with no downside. He could move back to America and find some smart, funny, beautiful woman who could keep up with him when he talked about science and who could talk to him about college and go out with him like a normal person. He wouldn't need some broken circus freak to keep him company anymore.

 

“More like put him to sleep, I don’t think it would be painful… but yes. He’d go away, forever, and I wouldn’t have to be terrified to leave my house every single day. I could live a normal life, unafraid of _people_. I wouldn’t have to be afraid of you, even. I wouldn’t be afraid of fighting, or yelling, or rough sex, or being stressed out – I wouldn’t be _scared_ anymore.” Bruce looked so happy, his eyes glittering and his hands gesturing wildly.

 

"Why would you be afraid of me? Have I ever made you think I would hurt you?" Clint asked. He took a step back. He knew he was closing off but he couldn't help it. Bruce wanted to start changing things and that scared the hell out of him. "I like our life Bruce. I like the Hulk. I would be dead without him."

 

“And I would be dead without you,” Bruce shook his head with a sigh. “But I’m tired of living in a constant state of terror. I want to be free of this curse, I want to be _normal_. I like our life – I love it. But I don’t love the fear.”

 

"I don't want normal." Clint said. He wrapped his arms around himself and glared at the floor. "I hate normal. Normal doesn't work for people like me. What sane, normal person wants some fuck up for their boyfriend?"

 

“I will, once I get rid of the Hulk.” Bruce sat back down at his computer and started to type again. “I can get back to the states, run through the cure, and be back – probably all in under two weeks. You can even come with me if you want, but you’ll have to lie low.”  

 

"You won't come back." Clint told him. He leaned heavily against the wall, looking around the tiny room. It would be so different when Bruce was gone. "There's no reason for you to. There's nothing for you here."

 

“What do you mean? Of course I’ll come back. I have my clinic, my life here – I have you. I would never leave that behind.” Bruce shook his head and closed his laptop. “I would never leave you.”

 

"You kicked me out yesterday!" Clint said, voice getting louder than he had intended. "You didn't want me around and that's just the start! Especially now that I'm completely useless. I can't even help you support the clinic anymore!"

 

“What?” Bruce stood up from the table, smoothing his shirt as he looked at Clint, his body language was stiff and frightened. “I needed some time to get some things together – some details and back up plans in case anything like this happened again, I didn’t kick you out, I asked you to give me some space. If we had a bigger house it wouldn’t have been a problem, but we only _have_ two rooms as it is. I knew you would use your time to shoot anyway, and judging by the state of your knuckles I’m right. It’s not a start of anything, Clint… what did you mean you can help support us?”

 

Clint closed his eyes, his body tightening in preparation for whatever came next. He didn't want to tell Bruce like this, in the middle of a fight. It was bad enough he had lost his job but to tell him during a fight might be the final nail in their relationships coffin. He wasn't sure he could handle that.  
  
"I got fired." he said quietly. "I was tired because I was up all night and I got fired."

 

Bruce was quiet for a long time before sinking back into the kitchen chair.

 

“Oh my God,” he murmured, hanging his head in his hands.

 

“I’ll just… get my things…”

 

“It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have asked you to leave, you needed sleep. Your job is so taxing, oh my god, this is my fault.” Bruce groaned. “I’ll go talk to your boss, I’ll try to get him to see reason. You’ve been working there for years, I’m so sorry,” Bruce’s hands were shaking.

 

"No!" Clint said, eyes snapping open and instinctively taking a step towards Bruce. "No, that's not what I want. I fucked up. I should have worked through it. Being tired is no excuse for not doing my job. And now you're going to lose the clinic and go back to America and kill the Hulk and I can't handle that Bruce! I need the Hulk!"

 

“You…” Bruce looked up, trying to wrap his head around that statement. “You need him. No. No, you don’t need him. You don’t even really _know_ him. You’ve met twice – under terrible circumstances both times. For the good of my sanity – and the safety of everyone around me, I’m going to put him down.”

 

"He likes me." Clint argued. "He saved my life and he likes me. That means something to me. If you kill him you're killing the only friend I have. And the second time wasn't terrible. We talked to each other. We get each other Bruce. All you're doing by killing him is making yourself more vulnerable and shutting me out."

 

Bruce groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “No, no, I’m not listening to this. First of all, it hurts a little bit that you classify a giant angry monster with the vocabulary of a four year old as _your only friend_ because here I thought the last few years with me _meant_ something to you. But apparently I don’t even qualify as a friend now? All I’m doing by getting rid of him is putting every person around me out of harm’s way. I’ve always been vulnerable, I’m vulnerable now! I can be cut, I can bleed, I can get shot, shanked, gutted, drowned, it’s the Other Guy that keeps me alive, even when I shouldn’t be! I’m not shutting you out by getting rid of him, I’m putting a staple in my sanity before I lose it forever!”

 

"You're not going insane. You're the most stable person I've ever known." Clint replied. "And these last few years have meant everything to me. I would rather have died than not had this time with you and without the Hulk I would have. I owe the guy everything and I can't just stand by and watch you kill him! Don't you understand that? Can't you see that without the Hulk everything between us will change?"

 

“Nothing will change between us unless you change it, Clint,” Bruce shook his head. “I will not be a different person if he is gone – he doesn’t change my personality day to day. I’ll still be the same man. I’ll still be your Bruce.”

 

"My Bruce." Clint repeated, nearly choking on the words. A few days ago hearing Bruce say that would have made him happier than he had ever been in his life. Now they were a sour lie that made his stomach twist. "I'm not the one trying to change anything." He said, putting that out of his mind for now. It was too easy of a trap to fall in to. "I could have. I had the chance to be someone who was worth something and I gave that up for you. I chose our life over that. And you want to turn your back on what we have."

 

“I didn’t stop you from joining that organization, Clint!” Bruce said, gesturing towards the door as if he were already telling him to leave. “We could have relocated if we had to, I’d stay somewhere where I can keep doctoring and you’d come home between missions or whatever they’d have you do and we could live our life! Don’t paint yourself like some martyr because you picked me out of the goodness of your heart – we could have made it work!”

 

"How? They would have had me in some barracks between missions and if they had gotten their hands on you they would have turned you into a science project!" Clint yelled. "I chose to stay with you because that's what makes me happy! Living with you and the Hulk. I wouldn't give up what we have for anything and I thought you might feel the same!"

 

Bruce shook his head and sighed, looking down at the floor. “I’m sorry that you’ve developed feelings for the Hulk. But the fact is that you don’t have to deal with him pounding dangerously at all four corners of your mind at every second of every day! You’ve got some romanticized vision of him based completely on bias, and it’s almost entirely false! _I don’t want to live in fear anymore, Clint!_ ” his voice raised louder than it probably should have, and his head snapped up so he could stare at the younger man – almost a glare. “And it isn’t your right to tell me that I should!”

 

"You're right." Clint said through tightly clenched teeth. "I have no right to tell you to do anything. Hell, what right do I have even ask? I'm just some schmuck with a bow you're fucking. I don't have any right to want anything from you."

 

“Don’t you dare, Clint,” Bruce’s voice dropped low, almost dangerous. “You’re more than that and you know it. But this affliction… it’s been with me a _lot_ longer than you’ve experienced, and I am _sick and tired_ of being _sick_ and _tired_. He’s not some pet you can tame, he’s a ferocious creature with bloodlust and a crush on you! You can’t protect the entire world – you won’t always be there to talk him back down into the cage!”

 

"Why not?" Clint asked. He looked up at Bruce, eyes wide and desperate, begging him to see sense and end this argument before things got too far. "Why can't I always be there? Where the hell else would I be Bruce? I've been there the last few times and I don't plan on leaving. But clearly you have other things in mind."

 

“I mean you’re not always going to be directly at my side!” Bruce cried, frustrated that Clint was twisting all his words. “You’re going to end up with another job and you’re not always right there if something bad happens and the Hulk tears a hole in my mind! I’m not willing to take that risk! Why the hell are you?!”

 

"Because I fucking need him, Bruce!" Clint yelled. He turned and kicked the wall as hard as he could. He could feel his toe break and he bit back a snarl of pain, turning it to an angry growl instead. "It's fucked up but I do. I can't be the only one of us with demons. Do you have any idea how messed up that would be? Mr. Perfect and the psycho?"

 

“I am _so far_ from perfect, Clint!” Bruce cried. “I have anxiety and I’m pretty sure chronic depression and I’ve tried to kill myself twice – once before I even _got_ this affliction! I’m socially awkward and I’m pathetic and I’m desperate and none of that will change after I get rid of him – I’ll just stop being so scared all the time. Do you _want_ me to keep living in fear, Clint? Do you _want_ me to be scared?”

 

"No! Maybe. I don't fucking know." Clint admitted. He did know though. He did want Bruce to be scared. Because scared Bruce needed him. This Bruce, who knew he could calm the Hulk and who needed to be kept safe, had a reason to keep him around. Bruce without that fear would have nothing holding him back. It made Clint sick thinking about it like that but he knew that deep down he wanted Bruce to be scared and to need him.

 

Bruce’s expression was even and he tightened his jaw. “I’m not going to let you guilt me out of this. I have lived with this long enough. I have lost endless nights of sleep, I’ve lost part of my sanity and I’ve lost my dignity over and over again. I’ve given up every shred of myself to the Hulk for _years_ and goddamn it I’ve earned my freedom from this curse.”

 

"Fine! If that's what you want then fine! I can fucking change too you know. I still have that agent’s number. I can walk away from all of this too!" Clint said, fishing the card out of his pocket. He was close to tears but he held them back. "I can be someone else too."

 

“I’m not going to be someone else, Clint! I’m not going to change!” Bruce shouted, his chest feeling tight. “I’m not going to leave forever, Clint, I’ll come right back! I don’t _belong_ in the states, I belong here with you! Safe and happy and monster-free!”

 

"You really think that's how it's going to be? You think nothing is going to change?! Because that's fucking bullshit!" Clint yelled. "Without the Hulk why the hell would you stick around? There's nothing for you here! You could be working in some lab, developing medicines that will save millions of people and you think you'll want to come back to this shit hole?"

 

“I love this shit hole!” Bruce defended. “I love living here with you! I love helping people selflessly, I love being good for something for people who desperately need it! Do you think I don’t care about these people – you think I’d just abandon them!?”

 

“You won’t come back once you don't need me anymore!” Clint’s voice was louder now, and it cracked weakly.

 

Bruce’s throat closed up and he stared at Clint, dumbstruck. His head spun and he felt weak and angry and sick all at once.

 

“Once I don’t need you?” he repeated in a hoarse whisper. “ _Once I don’t need you?_ ”

 

“Bruce – ”

 

“Is that really what you think of me?” Bruce cut him off, anger in his voice. “You think I’m using you? After all these years, you think I’m living by proxy with you as my goddamn savior?”

 

"Not as your savior. But I'm a pretty good way to pass the time." Clint said dryly. He leaned back against the wall, arms folded and head down. Bruce would hate him for that but it didn't matter. Bruce would have left him soon anyway. He wouldn't want him once he was 'cured'. All Clint had done was speed along the process.

 

Bruce thought he could feel the ground disappearing from beneath his feet, and he swayed, a feeling of nausea sweeping over him.

 

“Oh.” He swallowed hard. “Well, if that’s how you think I feel about you. I guess I assumed you had faith in me, but from what I’m hearing here you seem to care more about the Hulk than you do about me.”

 

"The Hulk is honest." Clint replied. "People aren't. He likes me and you keep insisting he isn't you. That the two of you have nothing in common. What the hell am I supposed to think Bruce?"

 

“You think I pity you.” The statement was accusatory and biting and sharp in all the ways that Bruce knew it would hurt Clint. “I knew you were insecure, Clint, but this is really fucked up – even for you.”

 

"Yeah well that's me all over, isn't it? Totally fucked up." Clint said, cringing away from Bruce like his words were physical blows. "But it's not like you ever told me anything else."

 

Bruce shook his head slowly. “It’s pretty sickening to find out that you think I never cared about you. I thought maybe you could pull your head out of your ass and stop angsting about your tragic past long enough to see that I’m staying here by choice and enjoying every day of it – but clearly you’re too wrapped up in your bitterness to see that I care.”

 

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" Clint growled. "You don't know the first thing about my past because you never _cared_ enough to ask. You were too fucking busy being scared to even consider what I might be living with. Hell Banner, I don't think you even know my last name."

 

“By principle, I figured you wouldn’t want to talk about it. Hard pasts are even harder to dig up – I know this from experience!” Bruce gestured towards himself sharply.

 

"I would have told you. I would have told you anything if you had showed the slightest interest in me." Clint said, his stance shifting, caught somewhere between wanting to run and holding steady to defend himself.

 

“Then you can tell me all about yourself after I come back from the states,” Bruce said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “But you’re not talking me out of this.”

 

"Fine. Do what you want." Clint replied. The words were hollow and flat though. He felt cold all of a sudden, despite the oppressive heat. This was the end, he could feel it and it made him sick. Clint looked down at the card in his hand. If Bruce could leave and change his life then he could too. "Forget I said anything. I don't want you to pretend to give a damn. There are places I can go where none of that matters anyway."

 

“I’m not leaving forever Clint!”

 

“You say that, but _you won’t come back!_ ”

 

Rage and betrayal bubbled up in Bruce’s chest. Clint thought very little of him, and that was clear. He thought that Bruce was heartless – he thought littler of him than he thought of the Hulk. “The Hulk it honest” then what did he think of Bruce?

 

His chest ached as he looked at Clint, his expression slowly turning more and more enraged. Clint already thought he was a monster. The only way he distinguished Bruce from the Hulk was… he thought the Hulk was more _honest_.

 

Well then, honesty abounds.

 

“Then go.” It killed him to say it. His voice shook and his fists clenched and he couldn’t tell if he regretted saying it or not. “I’m not going to let you guilt me out of this. I’ll just resent you all my life if I let you talk me out of it. So leave.”

 

Clint stood there, ears ringing, sure he had heard wrong. But Bruce was glaring at him like he wanted nothing more than to hit him as hard as he could and he realized, no, he had heard him right.

 

Client's world seemed to tilt and he almost stumbled. That wasn't right. That wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want to leave. He wanted Bruce. He wanted both of them, right here, forever. But Bruce wasn't taking it back or apologizing and he knew, more surely than he ever had, that forever was impossible.

 

"Fine." He choked out, holding back tears. His mind was screaming at him not to. To drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. But he didn't. Bruce had made his choice and if he wanted him to stay he would say so.

 

So he grabbed his bow and his quiver and, shaking from head to toe, and stormed out of the shack.

 

Bruce sank down into his chair at the table and wept.

He knew his heart was broken, and he could feel the Hulk mourning and pounding at his mind. He didn’t think it could ever come to this.

 

There was only one course of action.

He would go to the states, get rid of the Hulk, and then find Clint again. Find him and _prove_ to him that he could love him without the monster.

 

Love.

Bruce ached. He wanted to tell Clint he loved him. Why hadn’t he said it before?

He hoped Clint would come home in a few days anyway, let his anger subside and come back. They’d had fights before, but they always came back. Clint would come back.

 

Clint walked down the street, slowing more and more with each step. He closed his eyes, listening desperately for the steps or Bruce's voice calling his name. But there was nothing. Bruce wasn't even going to ask him to come back.  
  
He should have known. This was probably what Bruce had wanted. Now they could both move on and forget each other.  
  
Except he would never forget Bruce. He loved him too much to forget him. At least he had never told him. It would have made everything so much worse.  
  
Eventually he stopped listening. He bit down the tears and found a payphone.  
  
"Agent Hill?" he asked when his call finally went through. "Clint Barton. I'd like to reconsider your offer."

 

=========

 

The worst part of the next few days was finding out that the man Bruce had been in contact with wasn’t even immediately ready to go through with the cure. He still needed blood samples and there were tests to run – Bruce had completely misunderstood.

 

Or rather, that was the second worst thing.

The first being that Clint hadn’t come back.

 

Four days and counting and he still wasn’t home. Bruce put out word for him, but nobody had seen him – although everyone knew who he was because of Bruce. It was making him extremely nervous. He had the dreadful thought that maybe Clint had done something drastic to himself, but did his best to not think like that. He couldn’t handle that thought.

 

The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division (which was too long of a name in Clint's opinion) sent a helicopter for Clint the day after he called. He spent the night on the street, in an alley as far from his and Bruce's shack as he could possibly get. He had nightmares that night, worse than he had had in years. His father, his brother, his old mentors and even Bruce haunted him for hours before he gave up on sleep and just sat in the dark, clutching his bow.  
  
They took him to their base where his physical health, mental state and skills were accessed before he was placed in advanced training. It was a grueling process but he liked it. He didn't have to speak unless spoken to and most of the time he could zone out and forget everything. The nights were awful and most of the time he woke in a panic, only to reach for Bruce and realize he wasn't there. He'd cry then and the next day he'd push harder, hoping to tire his body beyond the point of dreaming.  
  
They offered him a new bow and he took it, carefully wrapping the old and hiding it in the back of his closet where he would never have to see it again.

 

Bruce wondered if he was ever going to see Clint again. Days stretched into weeks into months, and Clint never came back.

 

 _You didn’t deserve him anyway,_ Bruce told himself.

He went back to smoking. He thought he had the right. It made him feel sick, but it calmed him down at the same time, and it was the only thing keeping him from turning to drugs or self harm.

 

He entertained the notion of suicide for maybe a minute before he realized that he could never abandon these people who needed him like that. These people were his life now. He would keep the clinic open to all hours of the morning just so he could avoid going home to his empty house a little longer every night.

 

He didn’t know Clint’s last name.

It probably wouldn’t have helped him to track him down anyway, honestly.

He was never going to see Clint again.

 

Clint requested surveillance on Bruce. He had to tell them what he was and then it took a fair amount of convincing to keep them from going in and dragging him back to the base for testing. He said it was too dangerous, and for them it was, and it was better just to keep tabs on him.  
  
So he got updates on Bruce's condition, sometimes even photos. He had started smoking again and had extended his clinic hours. Things he never could have done with Clint holding him back. He hadn't left Brazil. That was what really hurt. He had said he was going to leave but he never did. He sent out blood samples instead. It just made it so clear that he had been trying to get away from Clint. If Clint had stayed he would have gone to America to get away but with Clint gone he could keep doing the work he loved. It was everything he could have wanted.  
  
It was better that they had split up. At least that's what Clint told himself when he was on the range at three a.m. or locked in his bathroom with cheap booze and blood on his hands. It was better for everyone.

 

Bruce thought he was dying after a year, so he quit smoking. It was hard, but it gave him something to focus on. He cried a lot in that year.

 

He did all sorts of things to distract himself. He grew his hair out then shaved it off and he would play with the short fuzz whenever he felt the itch for a cigarette. He took up painting even though he wasn’t very good, but he loved the relaxing brush movements – and he loved giving away the paintings to more frequent guests to his clinic for free, and they were always so overjoyed to receive gifts from him.

 

One year turned into two, although Bruce looked like he’d aged almost a decade. There was much more grey in his hair and lines under his eyes and he lost at least fifteen pounds with his lack of appetite. He’d come to terms long ago that Clint was never coming back.

 

And it was probably better. He didn’t want Clint to hang around and watch his friend die, if Clint could honestly call the Hulk that. He might be misguided, but his emotions were true, and Bruce would hate to watch a friend die. With Clint in that organization, he really could make something of himself, just like he’d said. It was better for him. It didn’t mean Bruce would leave him there forever, but it was a good place to let him stay safe and happy until the cure followed through and he could go get him and continue to love him.

 

After three years Clint got news that almost killed him. He was a high level agent by then, with Agent Phil Coulson, Fury's right hand man, and he probably could have covered watching Bruce on his own when he wasn't on missions. But the agent between them, delivering updates every week, made it easier somehow. Not by much, but every little bit counted.  
  
But then he got the update that Bruce had started seeing someone. He knew he shouldn't be surprised. In fact it seemed weird that it had taken so long. But he was sure his heart stopped beating when he read those words. He took off that night. He took a car from the garage and found a cheap motel with all the booze he could get and a lot of anger. Coulson found him three days later, the room destroyed, a sobbing drunken mess.  
  
It was then, or rather, when he was sober, that he realized he'd still been hoping he'd have a chance to win Bruce back. It was stupid to hope though and he had to stop it. And that meant destroying any chance of them ever being together.

 

Bruce wasn’t really “seeing her” though, not if you asked him, and probably not even if you asked her.

 

Her name was Rafaela. She was the thirty-year-old daughter of a man he once saved from a horrible biking accident. They were friendly to each other all through the years that Clint was around, but she was the very first person to notice that he was gone. And not even because she noticed he wasn’t around, but because she saw it in Bruce’s eyes.

 

She followed him from a store one night when he was buying cigarettes and talked him out of smoking them – he’d been clean for a few months. She reminded him so much of Clint in that moment that he’d started to cry, and she asked him to tell her his story.

 

He told her everything. She listened quietly, said nothing, and touched his shoulders when he cried. He felt so good, telling someone else his whole story – circus, the Hulk, Clint, everything – that he asked if she would stay. Her presence was comforting.

 

And just like that, within a week, she moved in. She was his new rock, he was nothing but a barnacle, but she understood that, and she didn’t seem to mind.

 

“You saved my father when he was dying – now it is my turn to save you from death,” she’d said with a smile.

 

Everyone thought they were seeing each other, and Bruce knew she had a little crush on him, but he just couldn’t bear to become intimate again, not so soon. He wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt. He loved her company, and he loved her stories of her younger brothers, but he could never love _her_.

 

Clint went to Fury for the first time to ask a favor. They had a few operations in Brazil and it was easy enough to plant the lie. An undercover agent with the CIA had been shot by drug dealers in Rio. He was identified as Clinton Tucker. 5'8" inches with blond hair and hazel eyes. The announcement went out to all the surrounding areas. Including Rocihna. He knew Bruce was smart enough to read between the lines.

 

Bruce got the message, alright.

Rafaela came home to Bruce standing in the middle of the bedroom with a gun. She talked him out of shooting himself, but just barely.

 

Clint was dead. Killed. Any hope that remained in Bruce’s heart that they would get back together was dashed. He stopped eating altogether, stopped sleeping – he always had nightmares anyway. He went back to smoking and basically hoped that nature would kill him since he’d hesitated when given the chance himself. Rafaela knew he was in a deep, deep depression, but there was very little she could do about it.

  
And then the man Bruce had been contacting told him once and for all – the cure was ready.

Maybe if Bruce got rid of the Hulk he’d be able to pretend the whole thing never existed. The circus, Clint, Brazil. He’d go back into the science career, he’d do good again, and he’d forget all the good and the bad times since the affliction. It would be like it had never happened.

 

Clint heard Bruce was coming back to the States not long after that. A few months earlier and he would have tracked him down, probably begged to be taken back. He didn't have that option now and he was glad. It was safer that way. He was dead to Bruce and that was how things were going to stay.

 

Forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is, friends. Such a happy ending.
> 
> Now with sequel   
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/670454


End file.
